HBR 


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By  Josephine  Daskam  Bacon 

Open  Market 

To-Day's  Daughter 

The  Strange  Cases  of  Dr.  Stanchon 

The  Inheritance 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


"Caught  her  in  his  arms  and  .  .  .  strode  down  the  room." 

[PAGE  287] 


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BY 


JOSEPHINE  DASKAM  BACON 

AUTHOR  OF  "TO-DAY'S  DAUGHTER" 
"THE  INHERITANCE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATION   BY 
A.    I.    KELLER 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
D     APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY 
JOSEPHINE  DASKAM  BACON 

COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  Son 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

H.  B.  H. 

AND 

A.  H.  H. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  HAPPY  DAYS 
AT 

"BRUSHWOOD." 

Above  the  lake,  a  star  .  .  . 

Softly  the  long  day  ends. 
Dearer  to  us,  by  far, 
Than  sky  and  water  are — 

Laughter,  and  love,  and  friends! 

J.  D.  B. 

EASTER,  1915. 


ooor i 


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THE  long,  black  procession  moved  forward,  car- 
riage by  carriage,  and  waited  in  a  series  of  tiny, 
discreet  jerks,  while  the  occupants  climbed  deco- 
rously out,  scurrying  in  under  the  great  striped  marquee 
that  gave  the  cemetery  a  curious  effect  of  a  lawn  party 
suffering  from  a  heavy  rain.  There  really  should  have 
been  lines  of  sodden  paper  lanterns  swinging  in  the 
wet  wind,  Evelyn  thought.  How  they  crowded  in — all 
of  old  New  York  had  turned  out  to  pay  the  last  honors 
to  Cousin  Sue.  It  was  like  a  roll-call  of  the  tribes: 
Bleecks  and  Schermers  and  Jays  and  Stuyvers,  all  facing 
the  long  train  journey  back  to  town  or  the  cross-coun- 
try motor  ride,  in  the  dreary  drizzle. 

The  rector  adjusted  his  stole  and  pitched  his  sono- 
rous, rich  voice. 

Man,  that  is  born  of  a  woman,  hath  but  a  short  time  to 
live,  and  is  full  of  misery. 

A  little  sympathetic  shiver  ran  through  the  quiet, 
crowded  space  under  the  striped  tent.  The  ageless 
beauty  of  that  perfect  phrasing,  austere  as  the  Greek 
urns  on  the  lichened  marbles  that  would  soon  guard  Su- 
san Bleeck's  earthly  shell,  stirred  an  echo  of  eternity  in 
every  heart. 

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Not  that  Cousin  Sue  had  such  a  short  time  to  live, 
Evelyn  thought,  though  certainly  inflammatory  rheuma- 
tism— and  Bleeck  rheumatism,  too,  the  deadliest  variety 
— had  kept  her  sufficiently  full  of  misery  for  the  last 
twenty  years.  How  her  knotted,  inflamed  fingers  had 
quivered  with  impatience  on  the  pillow  in  her  lap  that 
held  her  book,  while  she  flung  out  her  irritable,  eager 
questions,  her  beady  eyes  atwinkle  above  the  high- 
bridged  Bleeck  nose:  "Well,  who  was  there?  Nelly 
Schermer,  I  suppose?  What's  all  that  story  about  the 
chauffeur?  I  hear  Christine  has  a  new  salad  now.  .  .  ." 

Poor  Cousin  Sue !  Evelyn  was  sincerely  glad  she  had 
never  grudged  her  her  fill  of  the  luncheon  gossip  that 
it  had  been  her  duty  to  purvey,  gathered  from  every 
eligible  dining-room  in  New  York. 

".  .  .  and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower;  he  fleeth  as  it  were  a 
shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay." 

Like  a  shadow — ah,  yes,  that  was  it.  Like  a  shadow. 
How  often  and  often,  on  All  Saints'  Days,  had  Evelyn 
tidied  the  flat  stones,  filled  the  urns  with  fresh-cut  flow- 
ers, trimmed  the  English  ivy  that  old  Schermer  Bleeck 
had  brought  from  Oxford  in  the  days  when  Cousin  Sue 
was  a  little  girl  in  pantalettes. 

"In  the  midst  of  life  .  .  ." 

Thank  God  for  that!  She  was  in  the  midst  of  life  I 
The  eight  years'  bondage  was  over,  and  she  had  many 
years  left  to  enjoy  the  reward.  There  was  nothing 
wrong  in  thinking  of  it — Cousin  Sue  was  sixty-eight, 
sixty-nine,  almost.  Heaven  knew  she  was  willing  to  go. 

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And  she,  Evelyn,  was  twenty-nine  two  days  ago.  Even 
the  cross,  dying  old  woman  had  realized  a  little,  toward 
the  end,  had  felt,  it  seemed,  some  small  compunction  for 
the  tall  girl  that  leaned  so  uncomplainingly  over  her, 
that  answered  so  courteously  her  querulous  complaints. 

"Call  Simmons,"  she  had  ordered  abruptly,  and  then, 
"Sim,  get  me  that  portemonnaie.  It's  your  birthday, 
isn't  it,  Evie?  Here — I  hope  you'll  have  many  happy 
— many — what-do-you-call-'ems.  You've  been  a  good 
girl,  Evie — it  hasn't  been  all  beer  and  skittles,  has 
it?  But  that's  all  over,  now,  and  you  can  afford  to  let 
bygones  be  bygones.  You'll  stay  with  Nelly  Schermer, 
I  suppose — drat  her! — till  you  look  about  you  a  little. 
But  you'll  be  free  of  the  old  woman — I  suppose  you're 
thinking  it's  about  time,  eh?" 

Evelyn  had  choked  a  little;  after  all,  the  end  was  the 
end,  and  the  sharp-tongued  old  creature  was  going  out 
from  the  sun  forever.  Then  she  had  faltered  out  her 
thanks — she  had  never  owned  five  hundred  dollars  in 
her  life. 

"Thou  knowest,  Lord,  the  secrets  of  our  hearts  .  .  ." 

Her  own  secret  sang  above  the  grave,  chanting  voice 
of  the  clergyman :  to  be  free,  to  be  free !  To  leave  for- 
ever the  bread  of  charity,  the  equivocal  position,  half 
relative,  half  employee,  wholly  dependent;  to  be  quit  of 
the  hats  and  dresses  of  friends,  the  tickets  that  couldn't 
be  used,  the  seats  at  table  that  must  be  filled,  the  crowded 
place  in  the  motor.  Never  to  need  to  offer  the  writing 
of  notes,  the  telephoning,  the  shopping,  that  paid  for 
all  these.  Never  to  have  to  go  to  the  mountains  when 
she  wanted  the  sea,  nor  to  play  golf  when  she  was  aching 

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to  drop  into  a  deck-chair  with  a  book.    At  last  she,  Eve- 
lyn Jaffray,  would  be  an  independent  woman. 

"Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God,  in  his  wise 
providence,  to  take  out  of  this  world  the  soul  of  our  deceased 
sister  .  .  ." 

Evelyn  turned  to  the  sobbing  woman  beside  her. 

"There,  there,  Simmons,  don't  take  it  so  hard — Miss 
Bleeck  was  ready  to  go,  you  know,"  she  whispered,  pat- 
ting the  faithful  shoulder.  Mary  Simmons  had  served 
her  mistress  twenty-three  years.  It  was  good  to  feel 
that  she,  too,  would  be  remembered  and  freed  from  any 
further  yoke  of  service. 

"We  therefore  commit  her  body  to  the  ground  .  .  ." 

"Handsome  girl,  Evelyn,  all  the  same,"  Vandy  Scher- 
mer  mumbled  through  his  tight  black  gloves.  "And  a 
good  job  she'll  get  something  out  of  it — always  sorry 
for  Evelyn.  No  doubt  she  will,  I  s'pose?" 

" earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  .  .  ." 


"Oh,  of  course.  Practically  adopted.  Good  shoulders. 
Too  damn  stiff  for  me,  though.  Clever,  and  all  that," 
jerked  out  Stuyvers  Vanderpelt.  "Lord,  the  rain's  com- 
ing through  on  my  bad  shoulder.  Nearly  over,  Vandy  ?" 

"Ssh — those  singing  fellows !  She's  bucking  up  the 
old  woman,  Evelyn  is — Sue's  maid.  Looks  well  when 
she  colors,  don't  she?" 

Four  men's  voices  thrilled  softly  through  the  drop- 
ping rain. 

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"I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven  .  .  .  from  henceforth 
blessed  are  the  dead  who  die,  who  die,  in  the  Lord.  Even  so 
saith  the  Spirit  .  .  .  even  so,  even  so  saith  the  Spirit  .  .  . 
for  they  rest,  for  they  rest,  from  their  labours." 

Smarting  tears  pressed  Evelyn's  eyelids. 
"And  I  too,  I  too!"  she  murmured  with  twisting  lips, 
"we're  both  to  rest — poor  Cousin  Sue!" 

"For  they  rest,  they  rest,  from  their  labours  .  .  .  their 
labours." 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  kneel  on  this  damp  cocoa-mattin' !" 
said  Stuy  Vanderpelt  sourly.  "I'll  pray  into  m'hat!" 

In  the  great  drawing-room  at  Bleeckpits  they  settled 
down  comfortably:  Evelyn's  forethought  had  provided 
fires,  for  the  treacherous  May  rain  had  grown  chilled 
and  violent.  Folding  chairs  had  vanished ;  only  enough 
flowers  to  light  the  rooms  remained ;  Vandy  Schermer's 
special  sherry  was  on  the  smaller  tea  table  and  Cousin 
Georgianna  Jay's  unpalatable  Norwegian  bran  biscuit 
appeared  at  her  elbow  at  the  crucial  moment.  They 
moved  about  in  little  changing  groups:  a  low,  comfort- 
able murmur  rose  and  floated  up  toward  the  high,  cor- 
niced ceiling,  with  the  heartening  aroma  of  tea  and 
fresh  buttered  toast.  The  tea  was  in  three  pots:  Eng- 
lish breakfast  for  the  majority,  Ceylon  for  Nelly 
Schermer  and  some  of  the  lesser  Vanderpelts,  a  rever- 
entially special  mixture  in  an  earthen  pot  for  the  dowa- 
ger Jay.  Cousin  Georgianna  drank  hot  bowlfuls  and 
clattered  like  a  nibbling  old  rabbit  over  her  Norwegian 
biscuit. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  Vandy  Schermer  began,  lifting  his 

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voice  officially,  "you  never  know,  y'know,  you  never 
know.  I  thought  Sue  was  good  for  another  three  years 
at  least.  But  .  .  .  that's  the  way  of  it — that's  the  way 
of  it!" 

They  all  sighed  deferentially.  Vandy  had  always  been 
Cousin  Sue's  favorite,  and  with  practically  no  male 
Bleecks  of  any  importance  left,  he  might  be  very  fairly 
considered  the  head  of  the  family. 

"Great  comfort  to  her,  having  you,  Evelyn,"  he  added, 
turning  definitely  to  her,  where  she  leaned  over  Cousin 
Georgianna,  inquiring  deferentially  as  to  the  tempera- 
ture and  blending  of  the  brew.  "Managed  everything 
very  well,  and  we  all  feel  it,  I  assure  you.  No  paid  ser- 
vice can  equal  one  o'  the  family,  times  like  this.  And 
we  all  know  Sue's  temper  was  a  bit  rough  at  times. 
But  there — she's  gone,  and  you've  certainly  .  .  .  er,  er 
— yes,  I  will  try  the  sherry,  thanks." 

"I  suppose  Vandy  was  going  to  say,  'You've  certainly 
deserved  it' !"  Stuyvers  Vanderpelt  whispered  to  his  acid- 
faced  wife,  who  reproved  him  promptly. 

Evelyn  colored  and  squared  her  shoulders  uncon- 
sciously. 

"She — she  was  really  very  kind,  Cousin  Van,  mostly," 
she  said  sincerely,  trying  to  forget  how  much  more  the 
five  hundred  dollars  upstairs  in  her  glove-drawer  would 
have  meant  a  year  ago,  when  she  had  nothing  else  to 
look  forward  to. 

Nelly  Schermer  looked  a  little  doubtfully  at  the  well- 
built  figure,  the  flushed  face,  the  glossy,  firmly  coiled 
dark  hair. 

"Of  course,  Evelyn,"  she  began,  "you've  made  your 
plans,  I  suppose,  but  if  we  weren't  sailing  almost  im- 
mediately and  closing  the  house"  (I  wonder  if  it's  pos- 

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sible  Sue's  left  her  the  place — she  couldn't  have!)  she 
finished  mentally. 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,  Nelly,"  Evelyn  answered 
hastily,  "but  I  really  hardly  know — I  haven't  had  time 
to  plan,  you  see." 

"How  fond  of  her  was  she,  anyhow?"  snarled  Uncle 
Peter  Gelatly  to  his  wife.  "Susie  Bleeck  was  as  pig- 
headed as  Jonah — would  she  leave  the  girl  the  place, 
d'you  think?" 

"Hardly,  I  should  think.  It  would  take  so  much  to 
keep  it  up,"  Aunt  Louise  admonished  him.  "Hush — 
there's  James  Vrooman  getting  up.  I  suppose  we'll  go 
into  the  dining-room  ?" 

They  filed  into  the  big,  ugly,  carved  cavern,  which  had 
successfully  defied  every  modern  principle  of  interior 
decoration,  and  sat  somewhat  tensely  in  the  stiff  Vic- 
torian chairs.  After  all,  anything  might  happen:  you 
never  knew. 

"At  the  request  of  several  members  of  the  family," 
James  Vrooman  began,  "I  shall  now  read  you  the  last 
will  of  my  late  client,  which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  draw- 
ing for  her  eight  years  ago.  'I,  Susan  Schermer  Bleeck'  " 
.  .  .  and  the  quiet,  husky  voice  droned  on. 

The  Eye-and-Ear  Hospital,  the  Bible  Society,  the  fam- 
ily burial  ground ;  some  strange  college  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  state;  my  namesake,  Susan  Bleeck  Gelatly; 
my  nephew,  Schermer  Jay,  for  as  many  years  as  he  con- 
tinues attached  to  the  Roman  (or  any  foreign)  Lega- 
tion; my  valued  physician  and  trusted  friend  ("That's  a 
bit  more  than  I  should  have  advised,"  hissed  Uncle 
Peter)  ;  Evelyn  listened,  her  heart  pounding  uncontrol- 
lably. What  was  it  to  be?  Decent  gentility — heaven 
knew  she  would  be  grateful!  or,  perhaps,  perhaps  .  .  . 

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Cousin  Sue  knew  how  she  longed  to  travel,  knew  how  her 
father's  roving  blood  (her  mother  married  a  naval  officer, 
poor  woman,  and  was  dragged  about  from  pillar  to  post, 
the  Bleecks  phrased  it)  beat  in  her  veins. 

"Of  course,  there  never  was  any  formal  adoption, 
but  the  girl's  alone  in  the  world,  and  nobody'll  grudge 
her — unless  it  should  be  too  much,"  Schermer  Vander- 
pelt  murmured  to  Uncle  Peter. 

"Don't  talk  so  much!"  snapped  Uncle  Peter.  "My 
ear's  bad  to-day." 

Now  came  the  servants.  From  Michael  McGuire,  in 
recognition  of  thirty  years  of  faithful  service,  down  to 
Ellen  Dwyer,  a  newcomer  of  six  years  only,  due  and 
sufficient  reward.  They  all  nodded :  a  good  Bleeck 
will. 

James  Vrooman  cleared  his  throat  and  wiped  his 
mouth  with  a  silk  handkerchief. 

"And  finally,  all  the  rest,  residue  and  remainder  of  my 

property,   real  and   personal,   wheresoever   situate " 

the  breath  of  everyone  in  the  room  caught  for  a  second, 
and  most  eyes  turned  to  Evelyn,  whose  color  ebbed  sud- 
denly. Their  glances  were  not  all  unkindly — after  all, 
she  was  one  of  them,  a  lady  bred  and  born,  with  the 
Bleeck  hands  and  hair  and  the  Jay  mouth  and  chin  .  .  . 
"wheresoever  situate,  to  my  beloved  cousin,  Stuyvers 
Vanderpelt.  Signed,  Susan  Schermer  Bleeck." 

"You  mean  to  say  that's  the  end  ?"  Cousin  Georgianna 
demanded  incredulously. 

"That's  the  end,  Mrs.  Jay,"  said  James  Vrooman. 

Evelyn  rose  to  her  feet;  the  color  rushed  back  to  her 
cheeks.  They  looked  at  her  in  alarm.  But  she  only 
stepped  with  her  firm,  elastic  stride,  the  walk  of  a  golf  er, 
to  the  yellow  old  woman's  side. 

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"I'm  afraid  that  chair  is  too  high  for  you,  Cousin 
Georgia,"  she  said  solicitously.  "Let  me  help  you  back 
to  the  drawing-room.  Weren't  you  in  a  draught?" 

"Gad,  the  girl's  got  pluck!"  Vandy  muttered,  and 
then :  "It's  one  on  me,  isn't  it,  now  ?" 

They  crowded  out  of  the  room,  amazed  and  voluble. 

"But — but  Evelyn,  you're  not  even  mentioned!"  Nelly 
Schermer  gasped.  "There  must  be  some  mistake,  my 
dear!" 

Evelyn  smiled.  Her  breath  came  evenly,  now,  and 
she  had  no  need  to  swallow,  after  the  first  moment. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  look  at  it  like  that,  Nelly,"  she  said 
frankly.  "After  all,  think  of  the  home  I  had  for  so 
long.  You  see,  hardly  anybody  was  mentioned.  Cousin 
Sue  knew  that  Cousin  Stuyvers  would  keep  the  place 
up  and  never  let  it  go  out  of  the  family.  There  really 
was  no  reason  to  do  any  more  for  me.  Did  you  want 
your  car,  Uncle  Peter?" 

"A  damn  shame,  I  call  it,"  said  Vandy  loudly,  "a  God 
damn  shame — I  didn't  think  it  of  Sue!" 

"Of  course,  Evelyn,  as  long  as  you  want  to  stay  in 
the  house,"  Stuy  was  speaking  to  her  awkwardly. 

"Oh,  thanks,  Cousin  Stuyvers,  I'm  leaving  very  soon 
— I  need  a  little  change,"  she  answered  pleasantly. 

They  seemed  to  melt  away  like  smoke,  avoiding  her 
eyes. 

"Stuy  Vanderpelt  has  never  liked  me,"  something  whis- 
pered over  and  over  in  her  brain,  like  an  actual  voice, 
speaking,  "has  never  liked  me,  and  he  owns  every  plank 
in  this  house,  and  I  have  five  hundred  dollars  in  the 
world.  Cousin  Sue  has  left  me  just  twenty  dollars  a 
year!" 


II 


BY  six  the  last  motor  had  whirred   itself  away. 
Vandy  Schermer,  swearing  vaguely,  had  shaken 
her  hand  many  times,  struggling  helplessly  with 
intentions  so  far  beyond  his  vocabulary  that  she  came 
nearer  to  liking  him  than  she  would  have  believed  to  be 
possible. 

"Gad,  Evie,  it's  tough  luck!"  he  had  spluttered.  "I 
wish  to  God  I  wasn't  over  my  ears  in  debt — you  know, 
of  course,  it's  all  Rita's,  and — and  that's  fair  enough, 
considering  what  a  mess  I  made  o'  things,  three  years 
ago.  She  keeps  me  pretty  low,  the  missis  does,  but  look 
here,  Evelyn,  if  old  Stuy  don't  do  the  decent  thing  (wish 
I  didn't  know  what  a  clammy  beggar  he  is,  Stuy!)  if 
he  don't  come  up  with  something  decent,  and  a  hun- 
dred or  so  would  do  you  any  good,  ever,  you'd  let  me 
know,  wouldn't  you,  now?" 

"You'll  make  me  cry,  Vandy,  if  you're  not  careful," 
she  had  warned  him  unsteadily.  "Good-by.  You're 
awfully  kind  and  I  won't  forget  it." 

He  was  the  only  one  who  had  offered  her  a  penny. 

"What  was  Nelly  gabbin'  about?  Anything  in  it?" 
he  pressed  her,  still  holding  the  doorknob  awkwardly, 
while  the  servants  hung  just  out  of  earshot. 

"She  thinks  I'd  better  go  to  Cousin  Georgianna — 
she's  going  to  talk  it  over  with  her.  I'd  really  rather 

she  didn't " 

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"Oh,  don't  feel  that  way  about  it,  Evie,"  he  had  hur- 
ried on,  obviously  relieved.  "Let  Nelly  get  at  the  old 
lady.  Nelly's  frightfully  managin',  and  all  that,  but, 
after  all,  she  does  pull  off  most  of  the  affairs,  you  know, 
and  I  always  say,  give  her  her  head.  It  pays  to  keep  in 
with  her,  you  know,"  he  added  shrewdly. 

"And  I  can't  afford  not  to,  you  mean?"  she  said 
wearily.  "I  know,  Vandy,  I  know.  I'll  remember.  I 
must  go  in  and  pack  now — good-by.  Give  my  regards 
to  Rita — I'm  so  sorry  she's  laid  up.  I'll  look  in  when  I 
get  to  town.  Good-by." 

"She  certainly  has  pluck,  that  girl,"  Vandy  began 
later,  in  the  special  car  that  enabled  them  to  continue 
the  family  conference.  "I  tell  you,  she  took  it  like  a 
drum-major!  If  old  Stuy  had  the  decency " 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you  directly  that  he  hasn't,"  Nelly 
Schermer  announced  flatly.  "He's  never  forgotten  what 
she  said  when  he  married  again.  And  of  course  Mrs. 
Stuy  hates  her.  She's  too  clever  for  her  own  good, 
Evelyn  is." 

"You  mean,  you  think  he  won't " 

"Not  a  red  cent,"  said  Nelly  firmly.  "It  couldn't 
come  at  a  worse  time,  all  this,  you  know.  Two  years 
ago,  when  Georgie  Stuyvers  and  all  that  lot  of  girls 
came  out,  there  was  a  good  deal  Evelyn  could  do.  But 
now  there's  nobody  coming  along  in  that  way,  and  every- 
body's retrenching  and  feeling  so  blue,  and  when  you 
think  of  the  people  staying  in  the  country  just  to  cut 
down  extra  expense,  and — Oh,  I've  looked  over  the 
whole  ground,  Vanderpelt,  I  assure  you,  and  Cousin 
Georgianna  Jay  is  the  only  possibility.  Fortunately, 
she's  just  losing  her  last  companion — she  can't  keep  any- 
one a  year,  you  know — and  Evelyn  was  very  tactful  and 

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sensible  with  her  at  the  funeral  (those  ghastly  bran 
biscuits!)  and  I  could  see  that  when  I  just  hinted  at 
it,  she  took  it  very  well.  If  the  car  gets  back  in  time — 
we're  taking  it  over  this  year,  for  I'm  sure  it's  cheaper, 
and  we've  tried  the  other  way  often  enough — I'll  go 
up  and  see  her  and  get  her  to  take  Evelyn  directly,  for 
I  can  see  that  Mrs.  Stuy  is  itching  to  get  straight  into 
Bleeckpits.  They  can  rent  their  place  in  a  minute  to 
some  Jew  or  other." 

"Pleasant  prospect  for  Evelyn,"  Vandy  suggested,  but 
Nelly  whirled  angrily  about  in  her  drawing-room  chair. 

"Have  you  got  any  better  prospect  in  view,  may  I 
ask?"  she  inquired  curtly.  "If  so  .  .  ." 

"I  only  wish  we  had  a  room,"  one  of  the  younger 
Schermers  murmured  pacifically,  "but  three  children  with 
the  whooping-cough " 

"Thai's  just  it:  nobody  has  the  room,"  Nelly  summed 
up,  "and  the  people  that  have,  the  Ogden  Jays,  for  in- 
stance, or  Sam,  or  the  Willy  Rices,  don't  need  Evelyn  for 
anything — she  wouldn't  fit  in.  No,  I've  been  over  the 
whole  ground,  as  I  say,  and  Georgianna  Jay  is  the 
only  possibility — the  only  practical  one,  that  is." 

"My  dear  girl,"  Vandy  hastened  to  propitiate  her, 
"don't  think  for  a  moment  I  don't  agree  with  you. 
Georgianna  is  her  best  play,  of  course.  And,  depend 
upon  it,  Evelyn  knows  it,  and  is  a  whole  lot  obliged  to 
you  at  this  minute!" 

But  there  he  was  mistaken,  for  Evelyn  was  not  obliged. 
She  sat  on  the  window-seat,  the  door  locked  against 
the  sympathetic  Simmons,  and  stared  at  the  rosy  sunset 
clouds  (it  had  cleared  gloriously)  through  the  bitterest 
tears  that  had  ever  filled  her  eyes.  Bleeck  pride  and 
Jay  breeding  had  held  her  up  while  they  glanced  and 

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sympathized  and  hurried  away;  but  now  the  spirit  that 
supported  her  through  that  dreadful  hour  and  a  quarter 
had  faltered  and  melted  and  dissolved  her  very  soul  in 
hopeless,  helpless  tears. 

"It's  no  use,  it's  no  use !"  she  whispered  in  little  broken 
gasps.  "I  can't  begin  again!  I'm  nearly  thirty  years 
old,  and  I  can't  begin  again!" 

How  furiously  she  envied  the  housemaid  that  she 
would  dismiss  to-morrow  with  a  good  reference  and  full 
wages :  the  girl,  of  her  own  age,  and  not  unlike  her, 
now  that  one  thought  of  it,  in  build  and  height,  would 
leave  contentedly,  sure  of  another  good  position.  Old 
Mary  Simmons  would  live  like  a  queen  on  her  five  hun- 
dred a  year.  Little  Susan  Gelatly's  twenty-five  thou- 
sand would  add  to  her  market  value,  already  not  in- 
considerable. But  she,  Evelyn,  well  born,  well  bred,  well 
educated  and  well  dressed,  was  only  fit  to  be  flung  to 
the  whims  and  insults  of  old  Georgianna  Jay — without 
even  the  wages  of  the  parlor-maid.  For  the  ancient 
Georgianna  would  be  far  too  shrewd  to  better  Cousin 
Sue's  arrangements,  and  these  had  never  included  any- 
thing so  sordid  as  a  salary.  Clothes  when  they  were 
needed,  railway  fares,  the  rental  of  a  saddle-horse, 
when  everybody  rode,  her  dentist's  bills,  a  wedding  pres- 
ent now  and  then — and  a  home.  Had  she  meant,  hon- 
estly meant,  to  give  her  no  more?  Was  it  possible  that 
these  eight  years  of  her  life  were  to  be  repaid  in  board 
and  lodging?  Only  now  she  realized  how  little  she 
had  credited  such  an  outcome.  It  couldn't  be!  And 
yet,  suppose  her  mother  had  lived?  Evelyn's  was  a 
just  mind  and  she  could  not  deny  that  her  mother  could 
not  have  done  any  more  for  her — nor  as  much,  she 
thought  bitterly,  as  her  eye  wandered  from  lace-hung 

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window  to  tiled  hearth,  cushioned  chaise-longue  and 
pineapple-carved  bed.  No,  poor  mamma  would  have  had 
no  terraced  country  house  like  this. 

Poor  little  Annabel  Jaffray,  Bleeckest  of  Bleecks,  con- 
ventional, snobbish,  patronizing  and  absurd,  but  so  sin- 
cerely convinced  of  the  greatness  of  her  Family,  so  ut- 
terly incapable  of  relations  with  people  "not  in  our 
class  of  life,  my  dear,"  that  even  her  jolly,  roving  sailor 
husband  died  convinced  of  his  somehow  essential  in- 
feriority. He  had  met  her  at  a  Naval  Academy  "hop," 
and  her  trim,  prim  Dresden  daintiness,  her  quaint  little 
assumptions,  as  of  a  budding  duchess,  had  captured  the 
best  dancer  of  his  class  and  shackled  him  for  life  to 
that  saddest  of  all  things,  the  poor  relation  of  a  rich 
family. 

The  last  clear  memory  Evelyn  had  of  him  was  that 
of  standing  by  his  side,  a  handsome,  coltish  girl  of  thir- 
teen in  a  clever  little  frilled  frock,  copied  from  one  of 
her  cousin's  French  ones,  silk  stockings  mended  with 
infinite  pains,  and  a  hair  ribbon  pressed  and  steamed 
out  of  all  recollection  of  the  great  basket  of  roses  it 
had  adorned — it  had  come  from  one  of  the  Jay  con- 
servatories when  her  father  had  been  brought  home, 
honorably  wounded  in  some  foolish  foreign  port  riot. 

"She  looks  pretty  fine,  doesn't  she,  Bell?"  the  white, 
big-boned  man  said  doubtfully.  "Isn't  she  getting  pretty 
hifaluting  ideas,  though,  out  of  all  this?  I've  been 
thinking,  all  the  way  home,  wouldn't  it  be  better — she's 
a  clever  girl — to  make  a  try  at  sending  her  to  one  of 
those  women's  colleges  ?  My  sister  went  to  Vassar,  and 
— and,  you  know  the  pension's  small,  Bell.  Then  she'd 
be  fitted  to " 

"Oh,  Will,  don't  talk  that  way,  please  don't !  I  don't 

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know  what  mama  would  say !  It's — it's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, dear.  We've  never  done  that  sort  of  thing  .  .  . 
show  papa  your  favors,  dear.  They  had  a  regular  co- 
tillion, Will — see  the  sweet  little  gold  purse !" 

Then,  as  his  tired,  hollow  eyes  had  rested  whimsi- 
cally on  the  expensive  little  bauble,  Annabel  had  taken 
up  her  minor,  just-not-whining  refrain. 

"You  know,  Will,  Cousin  Sally  Stuyvers  asked  Evelyn 
to  come  over  every  day  and  go  on  with  their  governess, 
and  Jane  will  take  her  out  to  the  farm  for  the  summer, 
and  there's  a  pony  there  for  her,  you  know.  Uncle 
Peter  promised  me  a  year  at  Farmington  for  her  and 
now  that  Stuy's  Georgie  is  growing  so  fast,  there  are 
plenty  of  her  dresses  .  .  ." 

"All  right,  all  right,  Annabel,  you  ought  to  know. 
But  if  she'd  been  a  boy "  the  dying  man  had  an- 
swered wearily,  and  Evelyn  had  cried  over  the  foolish 
gold  purse,  for  she  loved  her  father. 

His  simple,  affectionate  nature  had  called  out  from  her 
the  one  free  impulsive  current  of  love  that  the  querulous, 
petty  life  of  the  family  dammed  up  in  her,  as  she  grew. 
With  his  death  she  had  grown  reserved;  haughty,  her 
mother  fretted,  haughty  and  ridiculously  ready  to  shake 
down  with  a  toss  of  her  strong  young  shoulders  the  tiny 
card  houses  of  shifts  and  pretenses  that  poor  little  An- 
nabel spent  her  feeble  strength  in  building. 

"Poor  little  kiddie!"  Will  Jaffray  had  thought,  un- 
easy. "Poor,  lonesome  little  kiddie!  I  hope  she  won't 
grow  up  like  me — she'd  do  better  not  to  feel  so  much 
.  .  .  but  I'm  afraid  she'll  need  someone  to  love." 

Truly,  Annabel  had  not  provided  this,  and  if  Cousin 
Sue  had  hardly  fulfilled  the  ideal,  what  would  he  have 
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Ah,  if  only  she  had  been  a  boy!  Surely,  then,  all 
these  pitiful  makeshifts  had  not  been  necessary!  How 
they  would  have  worked  and  pulled  the  family  wires 
to  get  her  into  Annapolis,  and  how  all  the  stuffy,  sordid 
struggle  with  their  tolerant  world,  "people  of  our  class, 
my  dear !" — would  have  been  avoided !  The  hot,  tiny 
little  apartment,  the  charity  visits,  the  altered  frocks,  the 
borrowed  governesses,  the  fees  out  of  all  proportion  to 
their  straitened  means,  accepted  so  easily  by  servants 
so  much  richer  than  they — Oh,  how  pinched,  how  futile 
it  all  was! 

And  yet,  what  a  training  it  had  been.  How  they  had 
taught  her,  those  drab  years  when  her  mother,  a  con- 
firmed and  querulous  invalid,  had  depended  upon  her 
for  every  connection  with  the  world  she  loved  so  well, 
how  they  had  taught  her  to  adapt,  to  excuse,  to  enter- 
tain, to  listen,  to  fill  in  the  gaps!  To  dance  with  the 
awkward  lads,  to  talk  to  the  shy  girls,  to  hold  the  wool 
for  aunts  to  knit,  to  play  the  piano  for  uncles  to  sing, 
to  drive  to  the  station  to  save  the  coachman,  and  to 
walk  to  the  village  to  save  the  horses.  Not  for  nothing 
was  she  become  the  first  aid  to  the  injured  dinner  party; 
in  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day  had  she  learned  to  fill 
in  the  mixed  doubles  and  understudy  at  amateur  theatri- 
cals and  keep  a  cribbage  score.  And  now,  after  eight 
years  of  it,  what  was  her  reward  ?  To  nurse  a  cross  old 
woman  to  whom  even  a  paid  wage  could  not  secure  a 
permanent  companion! 

She  stared  at  the  vivid,  flaring  sunset,  and  her  face 
was  very  bitter.  In  that  moment  her  mouth  was  like 
her  father's ;  longings,  passions  that  the  women  of  her 
mother's  kinsfolk  had  never  known  transformed  her 
very  flesh,  altered  her  eyes. 

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"But  what — but  what  could  I  do?"  she  cried,  clenching 
her  hands.  "What  could  I  begin,  now?  I'm  like  a 
squirrel  in  a  cage!  And  I'm  nearly  thirty!" 

Then,  deliberately,  and  because  she  intended  to  do  it, 
once  for  all,  Evelyn  Jaffray  leaned  her  modish  head 
upon  her  expensive  black  knees  and  cried  unrestrained 
and  humiliated  tears.  Cried  for  her  lost  youth,  as  hun- 
gry and  as  fit  for  happiness  as  any  of  her  cousins ;  cried 
for  her  vanished  hope  of  ever  seeing  distant  lands ;  cried, 
frankly  and  confessedly,  for  the  love  of  man  that  she 
had  never  felt,  the  weight  of  a  child  in  her  arms  that 
she  would  never  know.  For  it  is  only  in  books  that 
he  comes,  in  Evelyn's  world,  and  leaps  the  hedge,  and 
passes  by  the  young,  the  beautiful  and  the  wealthy,  to 
snatch  from  behind  the  medicine  bottles  a  woman  whose 
only  dowries  are  her  social  adaptability  and  her  good 
figure! 

The  hour  she  gave  to  those  tears  was  the  heaviest 
hour  of  her  life,  up  to  that  moment,  and  it  was  dark 
in  the  room  when  it  was  over.  Moreover,  the  cold 
water  and  toilet  vinegar  with  which  she  poulticed  her 
eyes  when  she  had  turned  on  the  lights,  failed  to  wash 
from  them  a  little  shadow  that  lay  in  their  brown  depths 
as  a  jagged  rock  lies  at  the  deepest  bottom  of  a  clear 
pool.  For  youth  and  love  die  hard  and  harden  us  in 
dying.  Nor  must  any  who  blame  Evelyn  for  her  course 
forget  this. 

That  night,  before  she  slept,  she  packed  her  trunks, 
burned  the  small  litter  of  odds-and-ends  that  makes  one 
woman's  bedroom  different  from  another's,  left  on  each 
of  her  few  pictures,  silver  vases,  bits  of  china  and  desk 
furniture  a  slip,  named  for  Simmons's  faithful  dis- 
*inction  later.  They  were  for  the  most  part  addressed 

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to  employees  of  the  big  estate:  a  Botticelli  "Spring"  to 
the  head  gardener's  oldest  girl,  a  long-time  adorer  of 
hers;  a  silver  rose-jar  to  the  nurse  who  had  stood  be- 
tween her  and  Cousin  Sue's  worst  hours ;  a  beautiful 
early  Italian  Madonna  reproduced  in  bisque,  for  the 
grateful  Simmons. 

"But  won't  you  be  keeping  anything,  Miss  Evelyn, 
dear  ?  It  can't  be  there's  not  some  mistake — Miss  Bleeck 
as  good  as  said  a  dozen  times " 

"I'll  start  out  fresh,  Simmons,  I  think,"  she  said 
quietly.  "This  trunk  I'll  let  stay  with  yours,  since  you'll 
be  stopping  in  the  village,  and  I  can  send  for  it.  I  have 
so  few  black  things,  they  can  all  go  in  the  steamer  trunk. 
I'd  like  to  leave  on  the  8:13,  if  it's  quite  convenient." 

But  this  was  not  necessary.  Fate,  the  old  Juggler, 
planned  otherwise,  and  to  Evelyn,  rushing  through  green 
Westchester  in  the  big  olive  Fiat  (which  needed  a  thor- 
ough overhauling  before  Mrs.  Stuy  should  take  pos- 
session) there  came  with  the  delicious  May  wind  on  her 
cheeks  and  the  scent  of  the  fresh  trees  in  her  nostrils, 
a  great,  new,  reckless  idea.  It  could  never  have  been 
born  of  the  stuffy  train;  it  could  never  have  been  con- 
ceived— though  she  did  not  know  this — after  any  lesser 
reaction  than  that  from  the  terrible i  hour  in  the  dusk 
when  she  had  watched  her  youth  drown  in  her  tears, 
and  grimly  pushed  it  under,  since  it  was  better  so. 

It  had  come,  the  idea,  as  they  passed  the  golf  links 
of  the  big,  white,  hospitable  country  club,  where  the 
eager  gallery  crowded  along  after  two  famous  profes- 
sionals playing  off  a  much-advertised  championship. 
How  carefree  they  were,  how  sure  of  the  comfortable, 
friendly  well-filled  hours  between  now  and  bedtime! 
.To  have  a  day  of  one's  own,  unhectored,  undemanded, 

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uncriticized !  To  live  for  once  unhaunted  by  the  feel- 
ing that  the  most  you  could  do  was,  frankly,  the  least 
you  could  do,  considering  the  benefits  you  had  received 
.  .  .  and  then  came  the  idea ! 

"But  why  not?  You  have  five  hundred  dollars.  You 
never  had  it  before:  you  probably  never  will  have  it 
again.  No  one  knows  you  have  it.  Why  not  do  just  as 
you  planned,  when  you  thought  it  would  only  have  to 
last  you  till  the  lawyers  had  had  time  to — to  .  .  ." 

Ah,  that  pool  of  tears  where  foolish  youth  had 
drowned ! 

"There  are  two  things  that  I  can  do,"  she  thought, 
clearly  and  impersonally,  as  if  she  were  considering  a 
woman  she  knew. 

"I  can  find  some  boarding-house  or  cheap  hotel  and 
live  there  till  it  goes,  for  say,  twenty  dollars  a  week — I 
suppose  I'd  be  asked  about,  more  or  less,  if  people 
knew  I  was  free.  But  it  would  be  only  a  matter  of 
time — it  would  be  Cousin  Georgianna  in  the  end,  and 
probably  they  wouldn't  let  me  wait  very  long,  anyway ! 
She  wouldn't  like  it.  Or  /  could  do — /  could  do  just  as  I 
liked  for  two  weeks!" 

The  gorgeous  unthrift  of  her  heart's  desire  took  her 
breath  away;  the  senseless,  impractical,  childish  crav- 
ing for  two  little  weeks  of  the  careless  freedom  she  had 
seen  all  around  her  all  her  pinched  and  hampered  life, 
caught  her  by  the  throat  and  shook  her  with  the  violence 
of  her  desire. 

She  had  never  gambled  in  her  life;  she  had  always 
had  to  plan,  so  carefully,  to  calculate  to  the  tiniest  mar- 
gin of  clothes,  of  fares,  of  fees.  She  was  not  a  jealous 
girl;  she  had  never,  to  her  memory,  grudged  one  of  her 
cousins  their  frocks,  their  treats,  their  pocket-money. 

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She  was  not,  for  the  best  of  reasons,  an  extravagant 
girl;  no  one  could  have  made  that  five  hundred  dollars 
go  farther,  nor  have  got  more  out  of  it. 

But  now,  suddenly,  she  found  herself  clutched  by  a 
desire  so  reckless,  so  extravagant,  that  it  heated  her 
blood  and  lighted  her  eyes.  To  have  two  happy,  light- 
hearted,  unthrifty  weeks  of  her  own — her  very  own! 
To  be  like  the  rest  of  them  for  once !  To  eat  what  she 
liked,  go  where  she  liked,  do  as  she  liked — to  bear  her 
share  among  her  friends  .  .  .  she  saw  rose-color.  In 
one  of  her  father's  happy-go-lucky  sailor  moods,  she 
lifted  all  she  had  in  her  reckless  hands  and  tossed  it  in 
the  air. 

It  was  as  much  a  possession,  an  idee  fixe,  as  any  whim 
of  the  old  woman  she  had  tended.  And  while  she  bal- 
anced in  her  mind  the  courses  opened  to  her  by  that 
ironic  five  hundred  dollars,  too  little  to  save,  too  much  to 
waste ;  absurd  as  a  legacy,  wonderful  as  a  fortnight  from 
heaven — she  tightened  her  lips  and  laughed  suddenly, 
irrepressibly. 

"Come  on,  Evelyn,"  she  said  aloud,  "see  how  it  feels, 
for  once!  Live  as  you've  been  brought  up  to  live — 
though  you've  never  been  able  to !" 

The  chauffeur  left  her  at  the  Grand  Central  Station 
and  touched  an  imperturbable  cap  as  she  replied  to  his 
inquiries  about  her  luggage:  it  was  all  with  her. 

"Take  it  to  the  Ritz,  Plunkett,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  see 
about  a  room  later.  Good-by,  and  I  hope  you'll  do  well, 
Plunkett — refer  to  me  or  Mrs.  Schermer,  any  time." 

"And,  if  I'd  dared,  I'd  have  handed  back  her  money," 
he  confided  to  his  wife,  that  night,  "and  her  without 
a  cent!  What  do  you  think — did  the  old  lady  forget, 
or  didn't  she  never  mean  to  ?  Gee !  It  was  tough  luck !" 

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"They're  worse  off  than  the  poor,  girls  like  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Plunkett  sagely.  "What  can  she  do,  now,  when  you 
think  of  it?" 

"Oh,  well,  let  her  get  married,"  counseled  the  chauf- 
feur sleepily. 

"  'Let  her — humph !"  returned  his  wife  with  a  satiric 
brevity. 

"Hello,  Evelyn!" 

Young  Georgie  Stuyvers  strode  by  her,  a  milky  bull- 
terrier  in  leash,  a  golf -bag  and  hat-box  trunk  in  tow 
with  the  porter. 

"Where'd  you  blow  in  from?  Mother  came  in  for  the 
funeral,  I  suppose?  I  simply  can't  go  'em — where  you 
staying?  I  love  your  hat,  Evelyn.  I'm  goin'  to  Long 
Island  this  afternoon.  Did  you  know  I'd  just  been  elected 
to  the  Patrician  Club?  Come  and  have  a  Turkish  bath 
on  me,  some  day — staying  with  Aunt  Nellie?" 

"I'm  staying  at  the  Ritz,"  said  Evelyn.  "Plunkett 
had  to  check  some  bags  here  for  your  Uncle  Vandy  and 
so  I  got  out.  I'll  take  you  up  on  that  bath  to-day, 
Georgie,  if  you'll  put  me  up  for  the  day,  will  you  ?  And 
lunch  with  me  at  the  hotel." 

"Surest  thing  you  know,"  Miss  Stuyvers  agreed  cor- 
dially. "Just  wait  till  I  check  the  pup — there's  a  man 
about  here  knows  me." 

How  easy  it  had  been  to  ask  the  child !  How  different 
she  felt — since  the  great  idea! 

"I'm  doin'  the  whole  business — shampoo,  hair  waved, 
manicure  and  a  swim,"  Georgie  suggested.  "You,  too?" 

"Me,  too,"  said  Evelyn.  "I  haven't  been  in  town  for  a 
month.  Can  I  telephone  Felice  to  send  my  new  dress  here 
— it's  grown  so  warm  to-day  and  this  suit  is  so  heavy." 

It  pleased  her,  as  she  splashed  lazily  in  the  marble 

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pool,  to  feel  that  she  would  leave  the  doors  of  the  luxuri- 
ous club  a  new  woman  outside  and  in — dressed  in  a 
frock  that  she  had  ordered  as  a  matter  of  course  from 
an  establishment  suitable  for  Miss  Susan  Bleeck's  all 
but  adopted  daughter.  It  had  only  needed  Simmons's 
"You'll  telephone  Madame  Felice,  I  suppose,  Miss  Eve- 
lyn? She'll  send  one  of  her  young  women  directly,  and 
you'll  have  the  silk  dress  and  the  tailored  suit  in  twenty- 
four  hours"  to  clinch  her  first  impulse.  .  .  .  Good 
heavens!  Who  would  pay  that  bill?  The  estate?  If  it 
had  been  poor  Vandy,  yes,  undoubtedly.  But  Mrs. 
Stuy — would  she  pay  Felice  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars  for  a  distant  connection  who  could  afford 
to  live — ever  so  briefly — at  the  Ritz? 

"Oh,  well,"  she  murmured  in  her  wonderful,  costly 
independence,  "never  mind!  I  needn't  ask  her,  thank 
God!  And  I  can  wear  the  dresses  a  long  while." 

And  she  dived,  sideways,  into  the  pool,  to  young  Geor- 
gie's  admiration. 

"I  say,  you  look  stunning  in  black,"  Georgie  confided. 
"You  won't  wear  it  long,  though,  will  you?  Aunt  Su- 
san wasn't  your  real  cousin,  was  she?  I  wish  my  hair 
got  such  a  gloss,  after  it  was  washed — there's  quite 
a  lot  of  red  in  your  hair,  did  you  know  it?" 

"Cousin  Sue  was  something  or  other  once  removed," 
said  Evelyn  gravely.  "How  much  is  all  this,  Georgie — 
I  pay  for  mine,  you  know." 

"That's  good,"  replied  Miss  Stuyvers  frankly.  "For 
I  haven't  a  red  cent  over  my  tips  for  the  servants  this 
week-end.  Father  yelps  like  a  pack  of  beagles  if  he 
hears  the  word  money,  and  I'm  'way  over  my  allowance. 
You  couldn't  lend  me  ten,  could  you,  Evie,  by  any 
chance?  I'll  have  it  next  month." 

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"Of  course,  child,"  said  Evelyn  easily,  and  opened 
her  new  black  bag. 

They  summoned  a  taxi,  because  of  the  dress-box,  and 
Georgie  confided  her  quaint  failures  to  adjust  outgo 
to  income  and  the  horrid  difficulties  of  keeping  dancing 
dresses  decently  whole  under  the  exigencies  of  the  new 
steps,  all  the  way  to  the  hotel.  It  was  cool-awninged, 
ivied,  electric- fanned ;  the  motor  ride  and  the  swim  had 
given  a  wonderful  zest  to  Evelyn's  appetite,  languid  dur- 
ing the  last  days  of  hasty  meals  on  trays. 

"Let's  have  cold  salmon  with  Russian  dressing  and 
iced  coffee  and  millions  of  little  cakes,  and  strawber- 
ries, shall  we?"  babbled  Georgie.  "Don't  you  love  'em? 
Hello — there's  mother  and  Aunt  Rita.  We  can  smoke 
here,  can't  we?" 

Evelyn  nodded  and  smiled  to  the  tables  here  and  there. 
The  light  glanced  from  her  thick  shining  hair  and  her 
firm  white  teeth. 

"You  know,  Evelyn  just  misses  being  really  hand- 
some," Rita  Schermer  murmured  to  Georgie's  mother. 
"That's  an  awfully  good-looking  dress  she's  got.  How- 
do,  Nelly:  we're  saying  how  smart  Evelyn  looks — 
wasn't  it  strange  about  Cousin  Sue's  will?" 

Nelly  Schermer  adjusted  a  platinum  lorgnette  studded 
with  tiny  brilliants. 

"H'mph,"  she  said  shortly,  "I  suppose  it  was  made 
in  the  house — must  have  been.  My  dear,  the  way  these 
young  girls  spend  their  money  for  food  is  perfectly  ri- 
diculous. Georgie  was  telling  me  how  she  couldn't  af- 
ford  " 

"Keep  calm,  Aunt  Nelly,  it's  Evie's  treat,"  and  Geor- 
gie dropped  into  a  chair  beside  them.  "And  that  dress 
wasn't  made  in  the  house  a  little  bit — it's  Felice." 

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"Oh,  indeed!" 

The  older  women  looked  at  each  other. 

"I'm  crazy  about  her  hat,  too,"  Georgie  added.  "Oh, 
there's  Christine  talking  to  her  now.  I'm  going  down 
to  Surfview  with  Christine,  you  know,  mother.  I'll  bet 
she's  asking  Evelyn,  too — I  wish  she  would.  I'm  aw- 
fully fond  of  Evelyn.  She's  one  of  the  squarest  girls  go- 
ing. I  wish  she  could  play  about  more !" 

"Dear  me,  I  was  just  going  to  ask  Evelyn  up  to  us," 
said  her  mother.  "Go  and  get  her,  Georgie — tell  her 
we  want  her — she  can  have  your  room,  if  you're  going 
to  Christine." 

And  so  great  is  the  power  of  auto-hypnosis  that  she 
really  supposed  herself  to  have  made  the  plan,  before 
the  picture  of  the  fresh  and  prosperous  girl  in  crisp  and 
telling  mourning,  lunching  so  succulently  at  the  Ritz 
had  driven  out  of  her  mind  the  uncomfortable  picture 
of  a  tired  and  somewhat  justifiedly  disappointed  distant 
relative,  dejecting  in  her  scrubby,  homemade  black! 

Almost  before  she  realized  it  she  was  leaning  over  her 
daughter's  table. 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Christine,  we  want  Evie  ourselves," 
she  found  herself  saying  good-naturedly.  "Let  her  come 
to  you  next  week.  You  can  drive  the  car,  can't  you, 
Evelyn?  Then  you  could  get  some  of  the  people  from 
the  station  and  save  Tinker — he's  strained  his  foot." 

Evelyn  laughed.  There  was  something  a  little  un- 
usual in  her  laugh,  they  agreed  afterwards. 

"I'm  sorry,  cousin  Jane,  but  I  don't  believe  I  can,  this 
week.  I  don't  drive  that  big  car,  anyway — it  tires  me. 
I  rather  like  a  runabout,  but  I  haven't  any  use  for  four 
speeds." 

"Well,  then,  will  you  come  to  us?"  Christine  had  no 

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idea  that  the  reason  she  wanted  the  girl  was  because 
she  seemed  uncertain  of  wanting  to  come! 

But  Evelyn  knew,  and  the  trivial  circumstance  was 
absurdly  sweet  to  her.  The  great,  new  idea  was  holding 
her  firmly:  to  refuse  two  comfortable  invitations  was 
an  utterly  original  experience  for  her — often  she  had 
had  such  visits  arranged  for  her  without  even  being 
consulted,  and  had  been  properly  grateful. 

A  tired,  clever-faced  woman  in  strict  tweeds  leaned 
over  and  patted  her  shoulder  in  passing. 

"How-do,  Miss  Jaffray,  how  well  you're  looking,"  she 
said.  "I  couldn't  resist  stopping  to  tell  you  the  most 
amusing  thing  .  .  ."  She  left  her  hand,  with  a  cabochon 
emerald  of  the  size  of  a  filbert,  on  Evelyn's  shoulder, 
as  she  lowered  her  voice  and  leaned  over  her  till  the 
tiny  emerald-flashing  watch,  hardly  larger  than  the  ring, 
that  swung  on  her  breast  from  its  short  diamond  chain 
touched  the  girl's  cheek. 

"You  see  that  fat,  dark  woman  at  the  table  behind 
Mrs.  Ogden's — she's  writing?  She's  the  one  that  does 
the  'Up  the  Avenue'  column  in  Fads  and  Frills.  I  was 
waiting  for  my  table,  and  I  dropped  one  of  my  lists — 
the  head  waiter  picked  it  up  and  handed  me  another 
sheet  with  it,  and  I  read  it,  before  I  realized  what  it 
said.  It  was  about  you,  my  dear:  'Lunching  on  the 
new  salmon  a-la-Ritz  were  Miss  Georgie  Stuyvers  and 
Miss  Evelyn  Jaffray,  Miss  Jaffray  in  a  very  smart  light- 
mourning  black  taffeta  with  the  new  Felice  tunic.  The 
ever  present  girlish  white  collar  and  soft  net  fichu  gave 
a  very  youthful  effect:  a  tiny  two-quilled,  one-sided  hat 
supplied  the  dash  that  black  must  have  to  succeed,  now- 
adays/ " 

She  quoted  rapidly,  surely. 

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"Isn't  that  funny?"  she  finished. 

They  laughed,  but  glanced  again  and  carefully  at  Eve- 
lyn. Georgie  grinned  maliciously  at  her  mother. 

"Oh,  I  know  her,"  said  Evelyn  carelessly.  "I  gave 
her  all  the  names  and  costumes  for  the  Willy  Rice  Per- 
sian party — she  was  awfully  funny  about  it.  You've  met 
my  cousins,  Mrs.  Schermer  and  Mrs.  Ogden  Schermer? 
Christine,  you  know  Mrs.  Palmer?" 

Mrs.  Palmer  nodded  quietly  and  mentioned  the  name 
of  each  lady.  She  was,  as  she  would  have  told  you, 
and  quite  honestly,  a  very  democratic  woman,  and  as 
long  as  people  were  nice  and  amusing,  what  was  the 
difference?  But  she  had  never  happened  to  meet  either 
Nelly  or  Rita  Schermer,  and  she  had  been  seven  years 
in  New  York.  She  had  a  little  luncheon  party  waiting 
for  her  and  she  had  no  objection  to  their  waiting,  while 
she  chatted  with  Georgie  Stuyvers,  the  most  conspicu- 
ous debutante  of  her  year,  and  her  aunts. 

"Mr.  Palmer  dined  with  your  husband,  I  think,  last 
night,"  she  said  easily  to  Rita,  and  Rita,  connecting  the 
emeralds  suddenly  with  Henry  H.  Palmer,  of  Palmer, 
Westernhouse  and  De  Witt,  broke  into  a  distinctly  hu- 
man smile. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "the  big  amalgamation  dinner. 
Vandy  thought  it  was  a  great  success.  You  know  Mrs. 
Palmer,  Christine?" 

"Mrs.  Palmer  and  I  worked  last  year  on  the  Pure 
Milk  Association,"  said  Christine  politely.  "Well,  Eve- 
lyn, how  about  coming  down?  We're  fighting  about 
Miss  Jaffray,  Mrs.  Palmer,  for  a  Friday-to-Tuesday. 
But  I  believe  she  won't  come  to  either  of  us — we  haven't 
sufficient  attractions  to  offer." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  cried  Mrs.  Palmer  briskly,  "for 

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what  I  really  stopped  for  was  to  remind  Miss  Jaffray 
that  she  promised  to  come  up  with  me,  our  next  trip  to 
the  woods." 

And  as  she  looked  hospitably  at  Evelyn,  the  center 
of  a  tableful  that  deeply  interested  her,  she  pressed  her 
shapely  emerald  hand  firmer  into  the  black  taffeta  shoul- 
der, and  sincerely  believed  that  her  hasty  words  had 
been  the  truth! 

Evelyn  glimpsed  in  a  swift  flash  of  amused  memory 
the  dull  winter  Sunday  afternoon  at  the  country  club, 
when  her  bridge  partnership  had  so  delighted  Mr.  Pal- 
mer that  the  vague  invitation,  though  cordial  enough, 
had  been  extended. 

"Three  of  the  people  who  played  bridge  with  us  that 
delightful  Sunday  will  be  with  us,"  Mrs.  Palmer  went 
on,  "and,  let  me  see — Oh,  yes,  Jimmy  Vrooman:  you 
know  James  Vrooman,  of  course?" 

They  glanced  at  each  other. 

"Yes,  I  know  Mr.  Vrooman,"  said  Evelyn  smoothly. 

"My  invitations  have  to  be  very  sudden  affairs,"  the 
pleasant  voice  went  on.  "Mr.  Palmer  is  so  frightfully 
busy,  and  usually  tells  me  that  he  has  ordered  the  car 
attached  to  the  Century  Flier  day  after  to-morrow, 
or  something  like  that.  A  business  man,  you  know. . . ." 

The  emeralds  winked  at  them. 

"But  you  really  promised,  you  know,  Miss  Jaffray — 
you  really  did!  We're  going  in  for  the  week — could 
you  leave  at  6:40  day  after  to-morrow?" 

Evelyn  smiled. 

"Why,  if  I  really  promised,  I  suppose  I  could,"  she 
said.  "I'll  have  to  get  a  short  skirt  and  some  high  boots 
and  things — I'm  rather  in  mourning  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Miss  Bleeck — I  read  of  it.  Very  sad,"  Mrs. 

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Palmer  nodded.     "Of  course  we  shall  be  very  quiet — I 
thought  you  wouldn't  mind." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Nelly  sharply.  "It  will  do  you 
good,  Evie — Miss  Jaffray  needs  a  change.  Why  don't 
you  come  round  with  me  in  the  car,  dear,  and  we'll  go 
to  a  sporting  place  off  Sixth  Avenue — it's  wonderful  what 
you  can  get  there  in  a  hurry.  Where  are  you  stopping  ?" 

"I'm  stopping  here,"  said  Evelyn.  She  smiled  serenely 
at  Cousin  Nelly  and  gave  her  hand  to  Mrs.  Palmer. 
"It  will  be  very  jolly,  going  to  camp,"  she  said.  "Here 
are  your  strawberries,  Georgie.  Thank  you  so  much, 
Cousin  Nelly — the  car  will  be  a  great  comfort." 

The  three  older  women  went  back  to  their  coffee. 

"Will  you  tell  me  the  meaning  of  all  this,  Rita  Scher- 
mer?"  Nelly  demanded. 

"My  dear!  How  should  I  know?  Sue  must  have 
given  her  something  we  knew  nothing  about,  after  all," 
said  Rita  vaguely.  "I'll  ask  Vandy." 

"And  I  was  going  to  offer  her  that  old  black  lace!" 
gasped  Christine.  "My  dears,  she  has  the  smartest  hat 
I've  seen  to-day !" 

But  Evelyn,  to  whom  the  orchestra,  sobbing  out  the 
last  act  of  "Madame  Butterfly,"  sounded  sweet  and 
poignant  almost  beyond  bearing;  Evelyn,  for  whom  the 
laughter-broken  chatter,  the  delicate  aroma  of  the  gar- 
nished viands,  the  gently  scented  air,  driven  by  the  elec- 
tric fans,  were  all  as  the  sounds  and  scents  of  the 
last,  reckless  happiness  of  her  life;  Evelyn,  who  had 
staked  her  all  on  the  great,  new  idea,  and  was  gathering 
in  her  gains  with  every  breath  she  drew — Evelyn  heeded 
less  what  they  might  think  or  say  of  her  than  the  old 
woman  who  slept  her  last  sleep  under  the  lichened  urns 
of  the  Bleeck  burial  plot ! 

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IN  Loon's  Nest  Camp  one  long,  lazy  day  was  very 
like  another.  Every  morning  at  precisely  eight 
o'clock  a  certain  chattering  squirrel  ran  along 
the  rough  bark  of  Evelyn's  balcony  and  bickered  furi- 
ously with  his  mate  concealed  in  the  trees  that  almost 
touched  her  latticed  casement.  This  wakened  her,  and 
she  stretched  lazily,  tingled  under  her  icy  shower, 
propped  yesterday's  paper  in  front  of  her  toast  and 
tea  and  wild  strawberry  jam,  and  quite  forgot  (so  plastic 
is  health  and  youth)  the  family  breakfast-table  of  Cousin 
Sue's  hereditary  preference. 

After  the  first  half  hour  of  this  heavenly  morning 
solitude,  her  intuition  led  her  to  the  tiny  table  set  in  the 
lee  of  the  broad  veranda,  where  her  host,  a  dark,  silent 
man  with  a  grim  sense  of  humor,  soon  grew  to  wait  for 
her,  trim  in  her  smooth-shouldered  silk  shirt  and  soft 
black  tie,  the  after-breakfast  cigarette  between  her  lips. 
Many  of  his  wife's  guests  tried  to  entertain  him,  with 
indifferent  success ;  but  Evelyn  had  had  too  many  silent, 
self-centered  creatures  of  his  type  and  age  put  next 
her  at  dinner  tables,  to  fail  to  find  his  weak  point,  and 
when  it  proved  to  be  American  Revolutionary  history, 
one  of  the  leading  financiers  of  his  day  found  reason  to 
bless  the  long  hours  she  had  spent  with  a  visiting  Eng- 
lish cousin-in-law  who  was  writing  a  book  on  Colonial 
battlefields.  She  took  gentle  mile-and-a-half  strolls  with 

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a  recuperating  invalid  sister  of  Mrs.  Palmer,  stiff  six- 
mile  tramps  with  her  wood-wise  husband,  and  won  James 
Vrooman's  heart  with  a  willing  though  confessedly  medi- 
ocre game  of  chess. 

It  was  a  curious,  unrelated  party,  whose  members  had 
no  common  interests  or  memories;  and  Evelyn,  who 
canoed  with  a  half-fledged  sophomore  godson  of  her  host 
with  the  same  good-humored  ease  that  distinguished  her 
at  the  chess-table,  pulled  the  disjointed  group  together 
with  all  the  more  pains,  because  no  one  of  them  knew  of 
her  apprenticeship  to  her  art  nor  dreamed  that  the  habit 
of  years,  acting  by  now  as  second  nature,  lay  beneath  and 
behind  her  unobtrusive  guidance.  It  was  really  her  gift 
to  them  all,  this  ease  and  free  play  of  personality  that  her 
magic  made  possible  for  them ;  her  gift,  though  they  did 
not  know  it.  They  only  realized  vaguely  that  it  was  the 
pleasantest  house  party  they  had  ever  had  together ;  they 
could  not  understand  that  it  was  a  grateful  girl's  thanks 
for  the  holiday  of  her  life. 

For  she  was  an  honest  soul,  this  Evelyn;  her  first  in- 
stinct was  to  repay.  And  she  was  more  than  this — she 
was  really  eager  to  give  pleasure.  They,  her  hosts,  could 
give  only  things ;  she  gave  herself.  And  as  she  gave, 
she  studied  and  wondered. 

She  knew  many  people  of  wealth  and  settled  position; 
many  whose  lack  of  means  had  made  their  unquestioned 
right  of  entry  to  the  precious  circles  heartrendingly, 
back-breakingly,  pride-shatteringly  difficult ;  many  whose 
fascinatingly  blank  check  books,  fat  and  eager  to  hand, 
made  only  patience  and  a  grim  determination  necessary 
to  bring  them  ultimately  in  the  haven  where  they  would 
be.  But  she  had  never  before  spent  a  fortnight  (for 
the  week  proved  far  too  successful  to  end  so  soon)  in 

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the  intimate  companionship  of  eight  pleasant,  cultivated 
people  of  great  wealth  who  were  members  of  no  social 
circle  whatever.  The  people  she  knew  moved  in  clans, 
in  strata,  in  closed,  if  concentric  and  often  overlapping 
rings ;  but  the  Palmers,  the  Bristows,  and  the  LaValles 
revolved  serenely  on  their  own  individual  axes :  one  saw 
in  imagination  their  big,  delicious  dinners,  as  unwelded,  as 
centrifugal,  as  this  houseful  at  Loon's  Nest.  Even  the 
Princeton  sophomore  followed  an  orbit  of  his  own :  Mrs. 
Palmer  had  never  met  his  mother,  who  in  her  turn  knew 
only  through  the  daily  papers  of  Miss  Georgie  Stuyvers, 
with  whom  he  had  often  danced. 

"I  was  talking  with  Miss  Stuyvers  last  week,  Melvin," 
said  Mrs.  Palmer,  and  he  grunted  vaguely. 

"I  only  know  her  to  dance  with,"  he  explained. 

Alone  of  the  party  Evelyn  and  James  Vrooman,  the 
man  who  knew  everybody  necessary  to  know  in  this  or 
any  other  world,  stood  on  a  common  ground ;  and  as  the 
long  pleasant  days  passed,  and  Evelyn's  chess  or  Mrs. 
Palmer's  Hungarian  cook,  or  Mr.  Palmer's  Japanese  va- 
let, or  some  inscrutable  reason  of  his  own  kept  him  with 
them,  it  grew  to  be  an  accepted  custom  that  they  should 
pass  together  the  time  between  tea  and  the  late,  lovely 
dinner  hour  on  the  wide  veranda,  where  the  orange- 
shaded  candles  quivered  under  the  pensive  stars,  and 
their  host's  burgundy  glowed,  a  nectar  fit  for  gods  and 
James  Vrooman,  in  glasses  that  would  have  caused  the 
Bohemian  who  created  them  to  gasp  with  amazement 
had  he  seen  the  rough  bark  legs  of  the  table  that  held 
them  and  the  hedgehogs  that  gnawed  tirelessly  at  the 
beams  that  supported  that  table! 

Mr.  Vrooman's  program  was  even  more  unvaried  than 
Evelyn's.  At  eight  he  rose,  and  touched  his  toes  with 

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his  fingers  fifty  times;  at  eight-fifteen  the  rumble  of 
his  shower  bath  woke  Mrs.  Bristow,  and,  indirectly,  her 
husband ;  at  eight-thirty  he  shaved ;  at  eight-forty-five  he 
dressed ;  at  nine  he  appeared  in  a  khaki-Norfolk  suit  and 
disposed  of  a  half  grape-gruit,  two  eggs,  boiled  for  three 
minutes,  and  a  bowl  of  cafe-au-lait,  which  he  poured, 
milk  and  coffee  simultaneously,  from  two  brown  earthen 
biggins;  from  nine-thirty  to  ten-thirty  he  read  his  mail, 
smoking  the  while  a  pale,  thin  cigar  from  his  own  stock ; 
from  ten-thirty  to  twelve-thirty  he  tramped  the  simpler 
trails  with  a  fishing-rod  which  he  never  used,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  never  followed  a  stream;  at  twelve-thirty  he 
dived,  moist  and  red,  into  the  sun-warmed  shallows  of 
Loon  Lake,  where  Evelyn  sometimes,  the  sophomore 
often,  and  Mrs.  Bristow  always  joined  him;  at  one- 
fifteen  he  appeared,  fresh  in  white  flannel,  talkative  sud- 
denly, reverentially  eager  for  the  Hungarian  cook's  five- 
course  luncheon.  After  this  rite,  crowned  by  a  fat  black 
cigar  of  his  host's,  he  was  at  the  service  of  the  com- 
pany, a  mine  of  anecdote,  an  appreciative  listener,  till 
tea  time ;  after  which  he  paddled  Evelyn  gently  into  the 
sunset  till  the  dinner  chime,  which  feast  he  signalized 
by  changing  into  a  becoming  white  dinner-coat  and  soft, 
many-tucked  silk  shirt.  After  this  triumph  of  Hungary 
he  smoked  a  long  Russian  cigarette,  told  exactly  three 
extraordinary  witty  stories,  and  played  chess  with  Miss 
Jaffray  till  eleven,  when  he  retired.  He  said  that  he  was 
asleep  at  eleven-twenty,  and  no  one  had  any  reason  to 
doubt  this. 

Once  only  he  had  been  rowed  to  the  mainland  before 
lunch  and  returned  in  time  for  tea;  and  once  after  mail- 
time,  three  days  later,  he  had  asked  for  a  guide  and  a 
sandwich  or  so  and  disappeared  for  the  day;  it  was  as 

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if  a  clock  had  stopped  in  the  camp.  On  that  occasion 
he  had  kept  the  soup — jellied  consomme — ten  minutes, 
and  surprised  them  by  asking  Evelyn,  later,  to  give  him 
the  pleasure  of  paddling  her  about  in  the  wonderful  path 
of  the  great,  lemon-colored  half-moon.  If,  when  the 
guides  had  run  them  evenly  off  the  landing-platform, 
and  she  lay  with  half-closed  eyes  against  the  lazy-back 
piled  with  orange  cushions,  bright  against  her  dark  head, 
while  the  stars  below  them  quivered  and  broke  under 
his  smooth  stroke  and  the  stars  above  them  pulsed  in 
the  powdery  blue-black;  if  with  light  laughter  from  un- 
seen canoes  all  about  them,  and  a  guitar  throbbing  from 
across  the  lake,  she  had  the  momentary  sharp  longing 
of  youth  denied,  the  irrepressible  wish  that  twenty  years 
less  lay  between  them — she  did  not  betray  it,  even  to  a 
consciousness  as  keen  as  his. 

They  found  themselves  suddenly,  simply,  on  the  topic 
that  had  long  trembled  on  their  tongues  but  never  slipped 
once.  Honor  preserved  their  host  and  hostess,  but  even 
their  position  was  gently  implied  in  the  discussion  of 
the  curious  social  isolation  of  their  fellow  guests.  Were 
they  the  necessary  product  of  great  cities?  Infinitely 
more  interesting,  because  more  baffling,  than  the  dreaded 
"climber,"  whom  they  scorned,  did  they  never  regret 
the  state  and  status  they  had  left  behind  them?  The 
Bristows  had  practically  founded  Cincinnati — or  was  it 
Detroit?  Was  it  inevitable  that  they  should  have  left 
it,  as  the  insect  leaves,  inevitably,  the  chrysalis?  The 
LaValles  were  from  the  oldest  and  best  blood  of  Balti- 
more, he  told  her,  and  knew  everybody  there,  when  they 
were  young.  But  Baltimore  could  not  hold  his  extraordi- 
nary capacities,  and  she  had  made,  perhaps,  fifteen 
friends  in  as  many  years — and  none  of  these  knew  each 

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other,  apparently!  Palmer  was  a  Princeton  man  from 
Columbus,  and  had  never,  it  seemed,  met  anybody  from 
Columbus  at  Princeton,  or  anybody  from  Princeton  at 
Columbus.  Mrs.  Palmer  had  been  the  most  popular  girl 
in  New  Haven  in  her  youth,  but  hadn't  cared  for  Colum- 
bus and  rarely  got  to  New  Haven  now.  Neither  of 
them  liked  New  York  or  had  liked  it  for  seven  years, 
but  even  if  they  had  been  able  to  leave — and  Western- 
house  and  DeWitt  would  never  let  him  go — they  always 
found  that  they  had  to  come  back,  somehow.  Was  it  the 
opera,  perhaps?  Mr.  Palmer  had  not  missed  a  Monday 
night  in  the  seven  years:  it  was  his  one  diversion. 

"I  sometimes  feel,"  Vrooman  said  abruptly,  "that  they 
are  the  real  New  Yorkers.  You  and  your  family,  I 
and  my  affiliations,  might  exist  anywhere  in  the  world 
where  society  is  civilized  enough  to  hold  four  genera- 
tions consecutively — Babylon  or  Buenos  Ayres  or  Dux- 
bury,  Massachusetts.  But  only  modern  New  York  and 
ancient  Rome  could  account  for  such  solid,  rootless,  in- 
sulated types  as  our  friends  back  there — you  know?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "I  shouldn't 
like  it." 

They  drifted,  silent.  It  seemed  to  her,  inexplicably, 
that  this  was  the  watershed  of  her  life.  How  twisted 
and  ironic  it  was  that  here,  among  these  aliens,  people 
who  didn't  dream  that  her  position  was  not  wholly  that 
of  the  cousins  and  aunts  they  knew  about,  she  should 
have  found  the  freest,  happiest,  wholesomest  fortnight 
of  her  life !  And  it  was  over.  The  extra  sports-clothes 
she  had  got,  the  little  bridge  she  had  played,  the  three 
days  at  the  Ritz,  with  luncheon  for  an  old  Farmington 
school  friend  who  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  a  black  din- 
ner dress  and  an  evening  coat  Felice  had  practically  given 

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away  (the  first  new  evening  wrap  she  had  ever  had!)  — 
she  could  not  have  afforded  to  go  home,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  Palmers'  private  car. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  then  looked  away.  He 
knew — he  must  have  known — whether  Cousin  Sue  had 
forgotten,  or  meant  otherwise,  or  had  all  along  intended 
her  grim  little  joke.  She  knew — and  he  knew  it — many 
things  he  would  have  liked  to.  Would  Rita  Schermer 
rule  Vandy  to  the  end  ?  How  much  did  Nelly  know  about 
her  husband?  Had  they  any  idea  of  allowing  Georgie 
to  marry  that  incredible  Roman? 

But  neither  spoke.  And  what  neither  of  them  knew 
might  have  changed  Evelyn's  whole  life.  He  had  not 
happened  to  discover,  and  she  could  not  possibly  have 
guessed,  that  clever,  nervous  Mrs.  Bristow  would  gladly 
have  given  her  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month  and 
the  tender  care  of  a  daughter  to  have  had  her  in  the 
room  of  her  present  companion;  or  that  Henry  Palmer 
would  have  paid  her  the  salary  of  a  good  secretary  and 
left  her  amply  provided  for  at  his  death,  for  the  privi- 
lege of  her  daily  attention  to  his  thoughts  about  Ameri- 
can Revolutionary  history  and  her  weekly  presence  in  his 
second  opera  stall. 

But  neither  of  these  persons  would  have  presumed 
to  consider  their  tactful  guest  as  any  more  possibly  eligi- 
ble for  such  positions  than  Vanderpelt  Schermer  or  his 
wife.  And  her  great  comfort  was  that  this  was  so :  their 
simple  ignorance  of  what  all  her  friends  and  relatives 
knew,  was  the  balm  for  fifteen  years  of  smart  and  sting — 
foolish  smart,  it  may  be,  and  tiny  stings,  but  the  sort 
that  have  chafed  the  daughters  of  Eve  since  the  first 
garden  blossomed. 


IV 


I   SUPPOSE  you  have  wondered  why  I  stayed  so 
long  here?"  he  asked  abruptly. 
"A  little,  yes,"  she  answered. 

He  lighted  one  of  his  enormous  Russian  cigarettes  and 
drew  the  paddle  in,  so  that  they  floated  quietly.  If  he 
was  thinking,  as  he  looked  at  her,  what  his  life  might 
have  been,  with  a  woman  of  her  stamp,  instead  of  the 
just  endurable  purgatory  that  is  known  exclusively  to  the 
man  whose  wife  is  a  slave  to  the  drug  that  only  fails  to 
kill  her — he  did  not  allow  the  thought  to  cross  the  length 
of  the  canoe. 

"I  have  an  idea  that  I'm  going  to  tell  you,"  he  said, 
"I'm  leaving  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  at  the  latest 
The  reason  I've  stayed  so  long,  aside  from  the  fact  that 
my  little  visits  here  keep  me  in  shape  for  six  months, 
and  that  you  have  made  this  one  so  pleasant  that  I  shan't 
need  another  vacation  for  a  year,  was  this." 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  drew 
out,  wrapped  in  his  handkerchief,  a  necklace  of  pearls 
as  big  as  moth-balls.  Perfect  in  shape,  as  like,  each  to 
each,  as  the  great  slow  drops  that  still  fell  from  the 
paddle  blade,  as  purely  milky  as  the  paling  moon  above 
them,  they  hung,  dripping  beauty  and  desire,  from  his 
steady,  outstretched  hand,  and  Evelyn  stared  at  them, 
amazed.  They  had  drifted  around  a  bend  that  hid  them 
from  the  camp,  and  cut  off  all  the  lake  sounds;  only, 

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somewhere,  away  across  on  the  south  shore,  a  mandolin, 
that  is  even  as  a  violin  if  it  is  far  enough,  shrilled  out 
a  new  dance-song  of  that  year. 

It  is  apple  blossom  time  in  Normandy, 
In  Normandy  .  .  . 

And  again  that  curious  sensation  caught  and  held 
her,  of  poising,  just  then,  on  the  critical  moment  of  her 
life. 

It  was  a  moment,  and  yet  it  was  an  hour,  a  lifetime, 
as  he  held  the  pearls  out  quietly.  The  handkerchief  that 
had  wrapped  the  wonderful,  gleaming  globes  smelled 
ever  so  faintly  of  eau  de  cologne,  and  as  the  ghost  of 
an  odor  reached  her  nostrils  through  the  motionless  air, 
the  mandolin  wailed  out  the  cheap,  touching  little  melody. 

It  is  apple  blossom  time  in  Normandy  .  .  . 

Never  again  was  Evelyn  Jaffray  to  see  a  string  of 
pearls  held  by  the  clasp,  dropping  in  a  straight  gleaming 
line,  without  an  instant  hallucination  of  the  wafted 
breath  of  eau  de  cologne;  never  again  could  she  whiff  it 
in  reality,  without  that  caressing,  silly  little  tune  flowing 
into  her  heart. 

"But  those  are  marvelous — simply  marvelous!"  she 
cried,  breaking  the  spell  as  one  breaks  it  in  dreams. 
"Where  did  you  get  them?  Whose  are  they?" 

"That  is  the  story,"  he  answered,  satisfied,  evidently, 
with  his  little  effect.  "Would  you  like  to  look  at  them  ?" 

She  held  them  carefully  in  the  cup  of  her  eager  hands 
and  he  pushed  the  canoe  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
lake. 


OPEN    MARKET 

"Heavens!"  she  murmured,  "I'm  glad  of  all  tne  air- 
chambers  and  non-overturnable  effects  of  this  canoe!" 

Suddenly  she  started. 

"Why,  the  clasp  is  an  amethyst!"  she  cried,  and  stared 
at  him. 

In  all  New  York — in  all  the  world,  perhaps — there  is 
but  one  chain  of  pearls  that  fastens  with  an  amethyst 
clasp;  and  all  New  York — if  not  all  the  world,  knows 
whose  it  is. 

"You  know  them,  then?"  he  queried. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered  briefly,  "everybody  knows 
them.  They're  Cissie  Gelatly's.  Why  did  she  send  them 
to  you?" 

"She  didn't,"  he  said.     "She  has  her  pearls." 

"Then  they're  an  imitation?  It's  a  perfect  one — an 
extraordinary  one." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.  "The  Duchess  of  Huddlington's  are 
the  imitation.  These  are  the  originals." 

Their  eyes  met  and  engaged  like  the  foils  of  fencers. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Vrooman?"  she 
demanded.  "They  were  Cissie's  wedding  present  from 
her  father.  The  Gelatlys  don't  give  imitation  pearls." 

"I  don't  know  that  he  knew  they  were  imitations,"  said 
Vrooman  placidly. 

"And  Cissie  has  no  idea?" 

"That  I  don't  know  either,"  said  he. 

She  gazed  into  the  linked  perfection  in  her  shrining 
hands :  there  is  a  look  that  pearls  call  into  women's  eyes 
that  any  man  who  knows  anything  about  women  knows 
to  be  unique  among  all  their  expressions.  James  Vroo- 
man smoked  and  enjoyed  that  look  to  the  full. 

"As  long  as  you  can  hold  them,  I  see  that  you  will 

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never  ask  me,"  he  said  at  length.  "So  I  might  as  well 
tell  you,  since  I  seem  to  have  decided  to. 

"When  Miss  Cecelia  Gelatly  married  the  Duke  of  Hud- 
dlington,  she  received  six  million  dollars  from  the  es- 
tate— her  mother's  estate.  Mrs.  Gelatly  was  supposed 
to  have  bought  her  husband's  consent  to  the  marriage 
with  her  famous  pearl  necklace,  because  Miss  Gelatly 
refused  to  marry  without  that  consent.  That,  at  least, 
was  how  the  story  went  fifteen  years  ago." 

"It  was  true,  too,"  said  Evelyn. 

"On  the  day  of  the  wedding  Gelatly  put  the  pearls 
around  her  neck  as  his  own  personal  wedding  gift,  with 
the  remark  that  it  was  the  only  way  he  knew  to  give 
her  a  sufficiently  valuable  present  to  mark  his  congratu- 
lation on  her  having  pursued  the  course  he  had  most  de- 
sired!" 

Evelyn  laughed. 

"He  was  a  wonder,  old  J.  G. !"  she  said. 

"Yes.  It  was  called  the  cleverest  game  ever  played 
in  the  Gelatly  family,"  Vrooman  went  on,  "and  when 
his  wife  burst  into  laughter  and  patted  him  on  the  shoul- 
der, everyone  agreed  that  she  was  a  'good  sport'  and 
had  taken  her  defeat  like  a  real  Teixera — you  know,  her 
maternal  grandfather  was  a  Portuguese  pirate." 

He  lit  another  cigarette  from  the  stump  of  the  first 

"I  was  at  the  wedding,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  was  stand- 
ing by  Rita  Schermer,  who  was  the  oldest  (and  clev- 
erest) of  the  bridesmaids.  We  didn't  quite  understand 
the  little  scene,  but  we  had  got  enough  hints  of  the  ins- 
and-outs  of  it  to  make  us  think  we  saw  why  Mrs.  Gelatly 
laughed." 

"And  don't  you  think  you   did  see?"  asked  Evelyn. 

"No,"  he  answered  gravely,  "not  now.  I  think  now 

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that  she  was  laughing  because  she  knew  that  the  necklace 
you  hold  in  your  hand  was  in  a  leather  bag,  locked  in  a 
tin  dispatch  box,  in  a  log  cabin  in  the  heart  of  the  Adiron- 
dack woods !" 

Evelyn  settled  against  the  lazy-back  and  ran  the 
pearls  through  her  fingers. 

"Great  heavens !"  she  said,  and  waited. 

"Thirty-five  years  ago,"  Vrooman  began,  his  eyes  on 
hers,  "I  was  twenty — a  junior  at  Harvard.  My  father 
sent  for  me — it  was  in  the  Easter  holidays — and  told  me 
he  wanted  me  to  go  up  to  Jim  Gelatly's  camp  in  the 
Adirondacks  and  take  him  a  letter  and  bring  back  the 
answer.  I  was  very  much  pleased  at  the  old  gentleman 
beginning  to  feel  he  could  trust  me  and  more  pleased 
when  he  told  me  something  about  the  business.  J.  G. 
had  always  been  a  heavy  drinker  and  just  then  he  was 
at  his  worst,  and  they'd  bundled  him  off  there  to  try  to 
cure  him,  you  see.  There  weren't  many  camps  up  here 
then  and  nobody  thought  of  moving  without  a  guide.  He 
was  there  alone  with  a  doctor  and  a  cook  and  a  great 
giant  of  a  woodsman  for  guide,  and  they  were  fighting 
it  out  to  a  finish  with  him.  He'd  been  there  a  month, 
and  Mrs.  Gelatly  had  come  up  to  see  how  he  was  getting 
on.  You  never  saw  her  at  that  time — naturally — but 
I  assure  you  Eulalia  Gelatly  was  something  to  see,  in 
those  days.  She  was  fine  looking,  up  to  the  day  of  her 
death,  I  think,  but  she  was  beautiful  at  thirty.  She  was 
one  of  the  first  women,  over  here,  to  shoot  and  fish  and 
drive  a  coach,  and  in  the  woods,  like  that,  she  wore  regu- 
lar shooting-breeches,  with  a  long  coat,  and  looked  like 
a  handsome  young  brigand. 

"When  I  got  there,  early  in  the  morning,  she  and  the 
guide  had  just  got  in  from  a  wildcat  hunt — they'd  chased 

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it  all  night  and  she  bagged  it  ten  miles  from  camp.  She 
wasn't  a  small  woman  at  all,  but  she  looked  like  a  doll 
beside  that  Hercules  of  a  man — he  must  have  been  six 
foot  five.  The  doctor  told  me  while  she  was  washing-up 
for  breakfast  that  the  afternoon  before  J.  G.  had  got 
hold  of  a  little  traveling  flask  of  hers  and  turned  nasty : 
he'd  actually  tried  to  knife  her,  and  would  have,  but 
that  this  guide  had  laid  him  out  under  her  nose  and 
nearly  knocked  the  life  out  of  him.  The  guide  carried 
him  out  like  a  baby  and  soused  him  in  an  icy  trout  stream 
till  he  yelled  for  mercy.  Then  Gelatly  came  to,  and 
apologized,  and  never  laid  the  least  grudge,  and  Eulalia 
went  out  hunting,  and  never  turned  a  hair!" 

He  chuckled  softly. 

"Well,  I  got  his  signature,  and  went  back,  and  he 
was  cured  (for  that  while)  and  kept  straight  till  sum- 
mer. Then  they  put  him  on  the  yacht  and  never  touched 
land  for  six  months,  and  that  really  did  the  job.  I  never 
saw  him  drunk  from  that  time  till  he  died. 

"When  I  took  over  my  father's  business,  years  after, 
I  found  an  old  deed  signed  by  J.  G.  and  Eulalia  Gelatly, 
transferring  ten  acres  on  Panther  Mountain  with  the 
hunting-cabin  thereon  to  Ed  Card,  and  then  I  remem- 
bered that  the  big  guide  who'd  knocked  J.  G.  down  was 
called  Ed. 

"J.  G.  never  went  near  the  place  again,  I  believe — 
he  used  to  say  he'd  had  his  little  dose  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks!  He  bought  a  big  camp  in  the  Rockies." 

Vrooman  brought  the  canoe  with  skill  out  of  a  tiny 
bay  they  had  slipped  into  and  knit  his  eyebrows  thought- 
fully. 

"I  never  saw  the  place  again — until  last  week,"  he 
said.  "Then  I  received  a  letter  from  a  French  priest 

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asking  me  to  come  on  a  matter  of  urgent  business  relat- 
ing to  a  will  to  a  little  town  not  twenty  miles  by  rail 
from  our  junction  here.  He  met  me,  a  thoroughly  good 
man,  and  took  me,  by  horseback  and  canoe,  to  a  camp 
that  I  remembered  as  soon  as  I  stood  in  the  room.  It 
was  the  old  Gelatly  cabin.  I  say  he  took  me.  I  was 
met  by  a  boy,  who  had  to  use  a  map  the  priest  had  made 
— I  saved  it  as  a  curiosity." 

He  held  out  a  neat  chart  like  a  motor-map  and  Eve- 
lyn took  it  unconsciously. 

"The  priest  didn't  like  to  leave  his  patient.  I  sup- 
pose you  might  call  it  his  patient — so  he'd  sent  one  of 
his  parishioners.  The  will,  as  he  called  it,  was  a  per- 
fectly correct  deed  transferring  the  dispatch  box  and  its 
contents  to  Ed  Card.  Ed  Card  had  been  buried  the 
day  before  at  the  foot  of  a  big  bowlder,  according  to 
his  instructions,  and  the  priest  had  sent  for  me,  as  the 
man  suggested  in  what  he  called  the  will,  as  the  proper 
person  to  whom  to  apply,  to  ask  me  if  I  thought  the 
necklace  could  be  sold  for  enough  money  to  keep  Card's 
son  in  food  and  drink,  now  that  his  father  could  no 
longer  support  him  by  guiding." 

Evelyn  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  never  heard  anything  so  extraordinary!"  she  said. 
"Can't  the  son  guide,  too?" 

"The  son?  Oh,"  said  Vrooman  carelessly,  "didn't  I 
tell  you?  The  son's  a  hopeless  cripple.  Paralyzed  from 
ten  years  old.  Pokes  himself  about  in  a  wheel-chair." 

He  turned  toward  home. 

"Inasmuch  as  the  necklace  is  worth  a  million  and  a 
half,  I  told  his  reverence  that  his  man  could  probably 
scratch  along  for  three  meals  a  day,  if  he  didn't  expect 
too  much,"  he  added  dryly. 

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"What  did  he  say  ?"  she  gasped. 

"Oh,  it  conveyed  absolutely  nothing  to  either  of  them. 
The  priest  remarked  that  there  was  little  or  no  sale  for 
such  things  up  there  and  he  would  be  pleased  if  I  would 
take  charge  of  it — it  was  difficult  for  him  to  leave  his 
parish." 

Evelyn  murmured  some  vague  words  and  Vrooman  be- 
gan to  paddle  swiftly  now,  for  it  grew  colder. 

"But  why  on  earth  should  Mrs.  Gelatly  leave  such  an 
enormous  sum  to  that  guide?"  she  persisted,  puzzled. 
"The  cabin,  I  understand — if  he  really  saved  her  life. 
And  I  heard  Rita  say  once,  when  Cissie  threw  a  hand- 
mirror  at  her  maid,  that  it  wasn't  the  first  time  to  her 
knowledge  that  the  Gelatly  family  had  just  escaped  mur- 
der." 

"That  was  it,  I  suppose,"  he  agreed.  "But  I'll  tell 
you  another  little  fact.  She  was  always  a  curious  crea- 
ture, you  know — impulsive  and  generous  as  she  was  cal- 
culating and  unforgiving.  J.  G.  told  his  doctor,  after- 
ward— it  was  Stanchon,  you  know — that  it  was  the  six 
weeks  in  that  cabin  that  had  made  him  his  own  man 
again  and  that  she  agreed  on  that  trip  to  stick  by  him 
— she  swore  she'd  divorce  him,  before  he  went  up  there. 
And  they  were  quite  devoted  for  a  while,  after  he  got 
back  from  his  cruise  round  the  world.  It  may  have 
been  a  sort  of — well,  I  don't  mean  a  vow,  precisely  .  .  ." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  she  shot  at  him  suddenly,  "that 
it  is  a  possible  thing  that  she  thought  she  was  leaving 
the  imitation  necklace  to  him — intended  to,  and  never 
knew?  As  a  present  for  his  wife?  It  would  have  been 
a  fortune  to  people  of  that  sort — they  cost  awfully." 

His  eyes  narrowed. 

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"That's  an  idea,"  he  said  slowly,  "a  very  keen  idea, 
Miss  Jaffray — it's  just  possible  .  .  .  just  possible  .  .  ." 
He  went  on :  "The  man's  a  pathetic  sort  of  chap — per- 
fectly healthy,  it  seems,  except  that  he  can't  stand,  ex- 
cept to  drag  himself  a  little  on  crutches.  He  pushes 
himself  all  about  the  place  in  an  old-fashioned  invalid 
chair  somebody  gave  the  father  for  him,  and  cooks  his 
meals  and  keeps  the  fire  up  and  even  gets  the  wood,  with 
a  big  fork  his  father  made,  and  makes  baskets  and  little 
canoes  and  such  truck  for  the  priest  to  sell  for  him  to 
summer  people  in  the  village.  The  father  tended  him 
like  a  baby  and  wouldn't  let  anybody  see  him:  he  told 
me  he'd  never  seen  but  one  woman  in  his  life — an  old 
nurse  his  father  brought  up  when  he  had  scarlet  fever. 
He  never  walked  after  that  and  when  the  doctor  the 
priest  had  up  from  the  village  told  them  there  was  no 
hope,  the  father  never  let  a  soul  but  Pere  Antoine  enter 
the  shack.  He  hardly  spoke,  outside,  after  that,  the 
priest  told  me,  and  they  called  him  'Dumb  Ed.'  But 
he  was  the  best  guide  in  the  woods  in  his  day,  according 
to  the  padre." 

"And  what  will  become  of — of  these  ?"  Evelyn  touched 
the  pearls  with  a  white  forefinger. 

"Why,  I  shall  invest  them — Carlier  is  up  here,  you 
know,  at  the  Dyshart  camp,  and  I  showed  them  to  him 
yesterday.  He  says  they're  exceptionally  fine  and  will 
go  on  the  market  most  opportunely." 

"He  doesn't  suspect  .  .  .   ?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  James  Vrooman  gravely, 
"you  can  say  what  you  need  to  a  great  lawyer,  a  great 
doctor,  a  great  priest  and  a  great  jeweler — and  I'm  not 
sure  that  the  great  jeweler  is  not  the  safest  of  all!" 

"But  what  will  this  cripple  do  with  the  money  ?" 

44 


He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  it  seems  almost  wicked  to  give  it  to  him!"  she 
cried. 

"  'Mine  not  to  reason  why,'  "  he  answered.  "I  am 
only  the  agent.  From  what  I  know  of  human  nature, 
I  should  say  that  there  are  two  possibilities  open  to 
Ed  Card.  He  can  go  into  the  Dominican  Monastery  on 
the  Hudson — below  Tarrytown,  isn't  it? — which  will 
welcome  him  with  open  arms  (he  is  a  devout  Catholic, 
by  the  way,  thanks  to  the  padre)  or,  when  the  news  of 
his  windfall  has  filtered  through  the  little  country  town 
— Greenville,  it's  called — he  can  be  dragged  out  and  die 
of  drink  and  gambling,  there  or  in  New  York." 

"He  is  dissipated,  then?"  she  asked  idly,  twisting  the 
pearls  about  her  wrist. 

"Dissipated?"  he  exploded  into  laughter.  "My  dear 
child,  Paul  and  Virginia  were  crooks,  libertines  and  gut- 
ter-birds beside  that  poor  fellow !  He  has  never  tasted  a 
drop  of  liquor  in  his  life,  nor  seen  a  playing-card  nor 
touched  a  woman's  hand.  He  is  perfectly  healthy,  es- 
sentially, though  worn,  of  course,  and  gaunt,  like  all 
cripples  of  his  sort.  He  has  read  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  the  Key  of  Heaven,  Robinson  Crusoe  and — some- 
thing else,  I  forget  what.  For  twenty  odd  years  he  has 
not  traveled  twenty  feet  from  his  door.  He  has  two 
acquaintances :  Pere  Antoine,  and  the  boy  that  brought 
me  to  the  camp.  Had  his  father  lived,  or  left  him  a 
few  dollars  a  year,  he  would  probably  have  died  at  a 
ripe  old  age,  contentedly  making  his  baskets,  four  feet 
from  the  bed  he  was  born  in !" 

"How  horrible !" 

"Horrible?  I  don't  see  it  like  that.  His  future,  now, 
is  likely  to  be  much  more  horrible,  it  seeme  to  me.  Re- 

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member,  he  is  innocent  as  a  child,  a  perfectly  certain 
prey  to  any  designing  ruffian  that  gets  hold  of  him.  He's 
cut  off  from  women,  poor  fellow,  so  I  can't  see  any- 
thing but  drink  and  gambling  ahead  of  him — you  can 
manage  both  of  those  from  a  wheel-chair,  you  see." 

The  canoe  grated  on  the  landing-stage.  She  handed 
him  the  pearls,  reluctantly,  in  silence. 

"After  all,  I  almost  hope  the  padre  gets  him,"  Vroo- 
man  concluded. 

"But  think — think,  my  dear  Miss  Jaffray,  how  much 
might  be  done,  with  that  man  and  the  income  of  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half!  It's  not  wild  wealth,  of  course,  now- 
adays, but  it  makes  a  very  comfortable  little  income,  a 
million  and  a  half !  And  its  owner,  virgin  soil !  Clay  for 
the  potter!  Why,  if  I  had  any  ambition,  I'd  apply  to 
myself  as  executor,  to  be  made  his  guardian. — My  dear 
girl!  Be  careful — you  nearly  had  us  over,  then!  What 
happened  ?" 

"I — I  lost  my  breath,  or  something,"  she  muttered. 
"Excuse  me.  I  think  I've  got  a  little  chill,  Mr.  Vroo- 
man — I'll  go  straight  in,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Will  you  tell  them 
all  good-night  for  me?" 

But  until  the  dawn  she  sat  rigid  on  the  side  of  her 
bed,  and  fell  asleep  just  as  it  grew  light,  her  tired  head 
against  the  green-stained,  rustic  foot-board. 

In  the  morning  she  asked  to  be  rowed  to  the  Junc- 
tion; she  was  to  make  a  few  calls  along  the  lakes, 
before  leaving,  and  they  were  not  to  expect  her  for 
luncheon.  She  might  play  tennis  at  the  Dysharts'. 

She  took,  indeed,  a  tennis  racket,  a  novel  and  some 
Norwegian  embroidery  in  a  bag,  but  during  the  hour 
that  they  rowed  down  the  lake  she  looked  at  nothing 
but  a  piece  of  paper  in  her  lap. 

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When  the  guide  was  well  in  his  boat  again,  she  walked 
to  the  little  station. 

"How  much  is  the  fare  to  Greenville?"  she  asked. 

"Eighty  cents,  countin'  the  'bus  trip  to  Center  Rapids," 
said  he. 

She  took  out  her  purse  and  setting  aside  some  bills 
in  a  tiny  envelope  marked  "fees,"  she  shook  out  the 
rest,  and  counted  it. 

There  was  a  dollar  and  sixty  cents.  The  man  behind 
the  little  window  looked  up,  at  the  strange  laugh  he 
heard. 

"Well,  ye  just  got  it,  h'ain't  ye?"  he  said  good-na- 
turedly, noting  the  look  on  her  face.  '  'Ts  a  good  thing 
you  do'  want  t'  go  no  further,  t'day !" 

"Yes,"  she  returned  seriously,  "it  is.  For  this  is  all 
the  money  I  have." 

He  laughed. 

"I  guess  you  know  where  ye  kin  git  more,  all  right," 
said  he. 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  she  said,  and  on  her  lap,  all  the  jerk- 
ing, single-track  journey,  she  held  the  little  piece  of 
paper  James  Vrooman  had  given  her  the  night  before,  a 
neat  chart,  like  a  motor-map. 


ON  the  tiny  platform  of  Greenville  station  she 
paused  for  a  moment.  What  she  had  planned 
had  seemed  so  simple  last  night:  now,  as  the 
practical  necessities  of  a  horse  and  a  canoe,  without 
which  she  could  not  reach  her  goal,  occurred  to  her  for 
the  first  time,  she  gasped  at  her  own  stupidity.  The 
Evelyn  of  a  fortnight  ago  would  have  quailed  and  re- 
treated. But  the  days  of  easy  power,  of  successful  risks, 
had  left  their  mark  on  her.  A  gambler  whose  every 
throw  had  indicated  her  daring  could  not  lose  courage, 
now  that  her  last  chance  trembled  before  her.  She 
shook  her  shoulders  free  of  doubt  and  took  the  little 
map  in  her  hand,  and  realized,  suddenly,  that  the  horse 
must  have  been  brought  only  as  a  courtesy  to  Vrooman, 
for  the  distance  to  be  covered  was  only  three  miles.  The 
canoe  appeared  to  be  stationed  at  Center  Rapids  Lake, 
and  she  resolved  not  to  waste  alarm  on  that  score  till 
the  actual  need  for  it  occurred. 

The  three-mile  tramp  was  nothing  to  her  strength  and 
violent  purpose :  it  seemed  that  all  the  energy  of  her  life 
had  flowered  into  this  incredible  moment,  this  impulse 
she  could  have  explained  to  none — and  justified  to  all. 
The  dusty  country  road  grew  quickly  into  a  cart-track, 
a  path,  a  narrow  trail.  She  had  long  ago  pushed  back 
the  thick-patterned  veil  that  conceals  all  but  the  flash 
of  eyes  and  teeth,  and  strode  on  at  a  pace  that  drove  the 

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hot  blood  through  her  veins.  At  the  little  rotting  wharf 
below  the  falls  only  a  lazy  boy  controlled  the  clumsy, 
flat-bottomed  boat,  and  when  he  had  rowed  her  across 
the  lake,  incurious  and  self-absorbed  in  his  rustic 
thoughts,  he  readily  agreed  to  wait  for  her  return  and 
never  even  questioned  her  destination.  Even  in  her 
growing  excitement  her  mind  found  time  to  note  the 
difference  between  the  woods  people  and  villagers :  too 
many  wanderers  in  tramping  gear  crossed  his  narrow 
path  in  life,  too  many  strangers  inscrutably  bent  on  un- 
necessarily tiring  themselves  in  the  pursuit  of  fish  they 
never  ate  and  deer  they  never  shot,  employed  him  and 
his  leaky  craft,  for  half  an  hour,  to  rouse  his  languid 
interest  in  their  aims  or  intentions.  If  anyone  wanted 
to  cross,  he  explained,  while  he  was  away,  his  brother 
would  soon  be  back  and  there  was  another  boat.  Other- 
wise, they  could  wait. 

"I  can't  be  ever'where  t'onct,"  he  added  philosophi- 
cally. 

It  had  been  hardly  necessary  to  drop  her  veil. 

From  now  on  the  little  map  must  be  more  frequently 
studied :  blazed  trees  kept  her  on  the  lookout,  unexpected 
forks  would  have  baffled  anyone  less  practical  and  in- 
tent. But  Mr.  Bristow  had  taught  her  much,  and  she 
was  accustomed  to  learn  and  remember.  Down  the 
dry  beds  of  little  streams  she  hurried ;  over  great  fallen 
trunks  whose  chopped  steps  served  at  once  as  bridges 
and  landmarks  she  climbed;  along  silent,  resilient  beds 
of  pine  needles  her  springing  step  left  no  sound ;  and  all 
the  while  her  every  sense  was  strained  to  go  right,  to 
make  no  least,  little  error  that  might  lose  her  hopelessly, 
and  defeat  the  one  last  struggle  of  her  life. 

For  after  this  she  would  never  struggle;  if  this,  the 

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last  bold  stroke  of  all,  should  fail  her,  then  she  would 
fall  back,  she  knew,  into  the  hateful  harness  of  the  old 
years.  And  what  drove  her  that  day  down  the  silent, 
lonely  trails  was,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  the  first 
and  last  and  only  spur  of  Jaffray  blood  that  had  ever 
nerved  her  to  any  act  of  her  life.  Neither  Jay  nor 
Bleeck  could  have  gambled  away  her  only  patrimony, 
that  mad  fortnight  ago:  only  her  gay-hearted,  reckless 
father  could  have  put  in  her  soul  the  furious  defiance 
of  fate  which  had  led,  step  by  step,  to  this  last  stand. 
She  was  driven  against  the  wall,  now,  and  as  she 
saw  it,  as  her  breeding  and  training  had  forced  her 
to  see  it,  she  was  fighting  with  the  broken  hilt  of 
her  despair  and  youth,  all  the  tiny,  pitiless  circum- 
stances closing  in  to  stifle  and  choke  that  youth  out  of 
her. 

How  deathly  still  it  was !  She  seemed  alone  in  the 
world.  A  little  red  squirrel,  with  steady,  beady  eyes, 
balanced  on  a  rotting  log  and  stared  at  her  deliberately. 
Its  face  was  oddly  familiar:  she  met  the  eyes  full  and 
they  were  the  eyes  of  Susan  Bleeck,  no  less.  A  shiver 
ran  over  her;  strange  thoughts  whirled  in  her  brain. 
Why  did  she — it — start  so? 

"Go  away — go!"  she  cried,  but  the  absurd  little  crea- 
ture only  sat  rigid  and  stared.  She  stamped  nervously 
and  it  walked  deliberately  down  the  log  and  sat  wait- 
ing. She  stooped  to  pick  up  a  bit  of  bark,  the  map 
slipped  from  her  hand,  and  just  at  that  moment  a  swift 
breeze  sprang  up,  whirled  it  up,  up  into  the  crotch  of  a 
smooth  tree  ten  feet  above  her  head ! 

Then  Evelyn  sat  down  on  the  path  and  laughed  hys- 
terically. 

"You've  done  for  me,  Cousin  Sue!"  she  said,  and 

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laughed  till  she  was  afraid,  and  stopped  abruptly.    When 
she  looked  up  the  squirrel  still  sat  there. 

The  map  was  wedged  securely  into  the  crotch  of  the 
tree. 

"There  were  only  two  more  turns,"  she  said  aloud, 
"and  they  were  both  in  the  same  direction:  was  it  left 
or  right?" 

She  closed  her  eyes  but  could  not  visualize  the  chart. 

"I  couldn't  possibly  go  back,"  she  said,  "and  nobody 
knows  where  I  am.  This  is  a  silly  way  to  die.  Would 
you  go  left  or  right,  Cousin  Sue?" 

And  when  the  squirrel  turned  down  a  fork  to  the 
left,  so  dim  that  only  the  old  blaze  showed  it  to  be  a 
trail  at  all,  she  got  up,  shook  her  skirt,  smiled  like  her 
father,  and  followed  the  little  animal  composedly. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  then  the  second  fork.  She 
took  it:  her  face  was  as  white  as  chalk.  A  quarter  of 
a  mile,  and  the  smell  of  cooking  food  blew  across 
her  nostrils.  An  eighth  of  a  mile,  and  the  clearing 
was  in  full  sight,  the  firmly  built  cabin  on  the  edge  of 
it. 

Her  legs  carried  her  like  an  automaton  to  the  door, 
and  as  she  raised  her  hand  to  knock,  a  tiny  pointed  nose 
peered  around  the  corner  of  the  lowest  log;  two  beady, 
Bleeck  eyes  met  her  own.  She  bowed  politely. 

"Thank  you,  Cousin  Sue — wish  me  luck!"  she  said 
gravely,  and  knocked  loud  against  the  pine  door. 

"Hello!     Come  in!" 

It  was  a  deep  voice,  a  heavy  baritone,  rough  and 
strong,  and  a  qualm  went  over  her,  an  actual  nausea  of 
terror. 

"Bui  he  is  an  invalid,"  she  thought,  biting  her  lip 
angrily.  "I  am  stronger  than  he — how  absurd  I" 

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"C'est  vous,  won  peref  Entrez  done!"  the  voice 
called  eagerly. 

She  opened  the  door  and  flung  herself  over  the 
threshold  into  the  dim,  bare  room. 

"He  is  a  weak,  timid  cripple,"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  raised  her  eyes,  and  sank  against  the  door,  holding 
in  terror  to  the  handle. 

For  the  man  that  stared  so  blankly  at  her  was  a 
bearded  Hercules — a  very  giant,  with  the  arms  and  chest 
of  a  wrestler  and  the  broadest  shoulders  she  had  ever 
seen. 


VI 


THERE  is  no  doubt  that  she  would  have  slipped 
out  into  the  woods  had  she  been  able :  simply, 
she  had  not  the  strength.  And  while  she  clung  to 
the  door  the  pork  in  his  frying-pan  began  to  burn,  and 
remembering  dimly  that  the  last  words  she  had  heard 
were  French  words,  she  cried  out  unconsciously  in  that 
language. 

"Be  careful— it  burns !" 

He  turned  quickly  in  his  clumsy  wheel-chair,  moved 
the  hissing  pan  to  the  edge  of  the  cooking-stove,  and 
poured  water  from  the  tea-kettle  into  it. 

"That's  better,"  he  muttered,  still  in  French,  then 
turning  curiously  to  her,  he  added,  "What  do  you  want  ?" 

No  four  words  could  have  been  addressed  to  her  to 
better  purpose.  Her  brain  was  utterly  empty  of  thought : 
the  shock  of  his  appearance  had  been  too  much  for  her 
strength,  exhausted  by  the  quick  tramp,  the  terror  of  her 
lost  map,  the  extraordinary  effect  upon  her  of  the  squir- 
rel's beady,  knowing  eyes.  She  had  nerved  herself  for 
a  patient  interview  with  a  timid,  querulous  invalid: 
this  bearded  giant  of  the  woods  who  turned  on  her  the 
clear,  startled,  blue  eyes  of  a  child  and  spoke  the  care- 
ful French  of  an  educated  Swiss,  in  the  resonant  bari- 
tone of  a  concert  singer,  shocked  the  last  vestige  of  her 
self-control  out  of  her.  She  forgot,  literally,  the  pur- 
pose of  her  visit — that  purpose  she  had  persistently  re- 

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fused  to  state  clearly  even  to  herself,  and  the  sudden 
tears  that  filled  her  eyes  were  tears  of  fatigue,  merely. 

"I  am  hungry — I  have  walked  a  long  way,"  she  said, 
still  clinging  to  the  door.  She  had  no  idea  that  she  was 
thinking  and  speaking  in  any  language  but  her  own. 

"There  is  enough  for  two,"  he  said  briefly.  "It  will 
be  ready  very  soon." 

He  turned  the  chair  adroitly  and  busied  himself  with 
emptying  a  plateful  of  potatoes  into  the  frying-pan,  his 
back  toward  her. 

It  was  clear  that  he  did  not  intend  to  ask  her  to  be 
seated,  and  she  dropped  without  further  invitation  into 
a  wooden  chair  and  waited  in  silence,  her  eyes  roving 
vaguely  about  the  room.  It  was  large,  for  a  cabin  of 
that  sort,  and  included  the  whole  space  of  the  main 
building — some  twenty-five  by  fifteen  feet.  Through  the 
window  she  could  see  a  second  smaller  cabin,  used  for  a 
sleeping-house,  perhaps,  in  Gektly's  time.  Indeed,  a 
third  building  projected  slightly  beyond  the  line  of  it. 
But  the  present  master  of  the  place  was  only  too  clearly 
incapable  of  moving  from  one  house  to  another;  his 
affairs  were  necessarily  assembled  between  four  walls. 
The  cooking-stove,  with  a  batterie  de  cuisine  in  shining 
tin  against  the  barked  logs  behind  it,  rose,  a  sort  of 
altar,  on  the  side  opposite  the  door.  A  small  table  made 
of  planks  nailed  to  four  logs  afforded,  evidently,  just 
knee  space  for  his  chair,  and  stood  near  the  stove.  A 
cot  bed  covered  with  a  neat  gray  blanket  filled  one 
corner;  a  large  crucifix  carved  in  some  dark  wood  hung 
above  it  with  a  rosary  draped  over  one  arm  of  the  cross. 
The  corner  in  line  with  her  own  was  piled  from  floor 
to  ceiling  with  dry  wood  cut  in  thick,  short  billets  to  fit 
the  stove.  Near  her  chair  stood  a  wooden  packing-case 

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for  an  upright  piano.  It  was  tin-lined,  against  the  squir- 
rels, and  she  could  see  from  where  she  sat  that  the 
three  barrels  it  held  contained  potatoes,  flour  and  sugar. 
Four  or  five  hams  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and  a  bag 
labeled  "navy  beans."  Long  afterward  she  remem- 
bered that  she  had  wondered,  wearily,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  this  bag,  whether  these  beans  were  so  named  because 
they  were  used  in  the  navy,  and  if  her  father  had  been 
used  to  eat  them! 

Attached  to  the  walls  were  here  and  there  rude 
shelves;  one  held  two  candlesticks  of  shining  tin,  an- 
other a  nickel  alarm  clock,  a  third  two  or  three  worn 
books.  A  cheap,  colored  lithograph  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child  and  a  tinted  statuette  of  St.  Joseph  were  the  only 
adornments  in  the  cabin.  An  orderly  litter  of  strips  of 
birch  bark  and  slender  twigs  for  weaving  baskets  lay 
in  line  with  the  door :  when  it  was  open,  a  worker  sitting 
near  the  heap  could  command  the  approach  to  the 
cabin.  A  rifle  and  shotgun  stood  in  a  strong  rack  next 
the  woodpile. 

The  place  was  bare,  even  rough.  But  there  was  about 
it  that  curious  air  of  neatness  and  suitability,  that  habit- 
able homeliness  and  adjustment  of  ends  to  means,  that 
restful  lack  of  irrelevant  objects,  that  characterize  alike 
the  frugal  logging  camp  and  the  luxurious  smoking- 
room.  For  a  man  makes  his  shell  as  inevitably  as  the 
crab  and  the  turtle — to  fit  himself. 

The  giant  in  the  chair  pulled  a  fragrant,  steaming 
coffee-pot  toward  him,  poured  a  little  water  dipped  from 
a  pail  into  the  spout,  and  set  the  pot  on  the  table  at  his 
right.  Then,  reaching  down  a  long,  powerful  arm,  he 
brought  up  from  the  foot-rest  of  his  chair,  where  it  lay, 
on  the  gray  blanket  that  wrapped  him  from  the  waist, 

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a  strong,  jointed  stick  with  a  sort  of  clumsy  scissors 
attached  to  its  end.  Manipulating  this  curious  and  evi- 
dently homemade  tool  with  the  utmost  cleverness,  he  de- 
tached from  their  rack  on  the  wall  behind  the  stove  two 
tin  cups,  two  plates,  and  a  larger  platter.  These  he 
placed  upon  the  table,  ladled  out  upon  the  plates  the  fried 
pork  and  potatoes,  opened  the  oven  door  and  dished  out 
two  great  spoonfuls  of  baked  beans,  poured  coffee  into 
the  two  mugs  and  with  a  metal  teaspoon  measured  con- 
densed milk  into  each.  With  infinite  care  he  drew 
out,  finally,  a  pan  of  well-browned  soda-biscuits  and 
spearing  two  with  a  great  iron  fork,  laid  one  by  each 
mug. 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  turned  to  Evelyn. 

"There  will  be  eggs  and  butter  when  Pere  Antoine 
comes,"  he  said,  adding  with  an  obvious  trembling  of 
his  deep  voice,  "as  you  know,  without  doubt!" 

She  had  long  ceased  to  think,  lost  in  a  stupor  of  hunger 
and  fatigue — indeed,  she  had  never  been  so  near  to  faint- 
ing— but  her  mind  fumbled  vaguely  at  this  last  phrase: 
how  should  she  know  about  the  eggs  and  butter? 

Then,  as  he  turned  from  her  again  and  began  to  eat, 
suddenly,  she  realized  that  it  would  be  useless  to  wait 
for  an  invitation  to  join  him,  for  he  had  evidently  no 
intention  of  giving  one. 

She  grew  crimson:  the  flush  rose  to  her  hair  and  her 
very  shoulders  were  hot  with  it.  She  was  on  the  verge 
of  leaving  the  cabin,  but  the  odor  of  the  fresh  coffee 
drew  her  relentlessly;  she  knew  she  could  not  walk  far 
without  food — and  then,  where  would  she  go?  And 
when  he  turned  and  cast  a  troubled  glance  at  her,  a  glance 
that  had,  she  could  have  sworn,  a  curious  sort  of  fear 
in  it,  she  rose  suddenly  and  walked  to  the  other  side  of 

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the  table.  How  foolish  she  had  been;  of  course  he  ex- 
pected her — had  he  not  laid  the  two  plates? 

She  took  a  chair  from  near  the  bed  and  placed  it 
opposite  his.  The  coffee  rose  like  wine  to  her  nostrils. 

"It — it  is  most  kind  of  you  to  allow  me  a  part  of  your 
meal,  monsieur,"  she  said  quickly  and  drank  nearly  half 
the  strong,  hot  cupful  at  a  gulp.  As  she  set  the  tin  cup 
down  she  met  his  eyes,  and  she  distinctly  saw  the  pupils 
dilate  and  his  forehead  and  cheekbones — the  only  part 
of  his  skin  that  the  thick  brown  beard  left  free — fade 
to  a  sudden  white. 

He  crossed  himself  rapidly. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son  and  the  Holy 
Ghost!"  he  muttered  in  French,  then  dropped  his  fork 
and  stared  at  her  undisguisedly,  while  she  ate. 

"The  man  is  afraid  of  me!"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
with  every  mouthful  her  composure  grew. 

Never  had  food  been  such  an  elixir  of  life  and  strength 
to  her.  She  ate  herself  back,  literally,  into  courage  and 
self-control.  The  color  came  to  her  cheeks,  the  warmth 
to  her  hands  and  feet.  What  she  had  planned  to  do  no 
longer  seemed  possible,  in  the  face  of  this  great,  fright- 
ened creature :  her  dream  had  woven  itself  about  what 
she  now  saw  to  have  been  an  ascetic,  even  a  scholarly 
figure,  a  doll  that  she  could  have  dressed,  a  sort  of 
wood-wraith  of  a  woman's  determined  vision.  But  now 
that  he  was  afraid  of  her,  to  find  the  way  home  was  easy 
enough,  if  he  expected  the  priest,  and  she  could  easily 
explain  her  presence  as  a  friend  of  Vrooman's. 

Her  composure  returned  in  a  steady,  mounting  flood. 
A  woman  of  the  world,  she  might  very  well  visit  from 
curiosity  this  quaint,  loutish  fellow — why  not?  To  be 
the  first  woman  a  man  had  ever  seen.  .  .  . 

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"You  are  not  eating,  yourself,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"Will  you  not  do  so,  monsieur?  You  would  not  wish 
me  to  appear  greedy,  I  am  sure,  I,  who  am  so  grateful 
for  your  charity  to  a  stranger." 

Again  he  blanched  and  his  eyes  stood  out,  curiously 
greenish-blue  under  his  heavy  eyebrows.  His  empty 
fork  clattered  against  the  tin  plate:  Evelyn  could  have 
sworn  that  his  teeth  chattered  under  his  thick,  shape- 
less mustache. 

"But — but — if  it  pleases  you  ...  I  will  do  it.  Cer- 
tainly I  will  do  it!"  he  stammered,  and  crossing  him- 
self rapidly  he  lifted  great  pieces  of  the  pork  and  potato 
to  his  lips,  dropping  his  eyes  till  they  appeared  to  close. 
She  felt  distinctly  amused. 

"Indeed,  monsieur,  you  must  not  be  afraid  of  me,"  she 
began  gently.  "I — I  know  you  are  not  used  to  guests. 
To  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I  came  especially  to  see  you, 
I  know  more  of  you  than  you  do  of  me " 

"My  God !"  he  burst  out  suddenly  and  raised  his  eyes 
wildly  to  hers.  "Am  I  to  die,  then?  Will  it  be  soon?" 

She  stared  at  him,  horrified. 

"I — I  had  rather  know,"  he  panted,  "I  am  one  that 
would  rather  know,  if  a  thing  is  to  be.  I  confessed  last 
week  when  my  father  died — as  you  know — and  Pere 
Antoine  said  it  was  a  good  confession  and  that  without 
doubt  you — you  would  remember  me!" 

He  clasped  his  strong,  brown  hands  together  till  the 
knotted  joints  stood  out  and  stretched  them,  trembling, 
to  her,  murmuring,  in  frightened  haste,  the  broken,  gasp- 
ing prayer  of  youth  and  age,  of  weak  and  strong. 

" Pray  for  us  sinners  now  and  at  the  hour  of  our 

death!"   he  concluded,  and  covered   his   face  with   his 
shaking  hands. 

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She  felt  moved  with  an  immense  pity.  She  had  no 
fear  at  all,  even  though  she  was  sure  that  his  mind  was 
unhinged.  How  lonely  he  was,  how  helpless !  How 
cruelly  life  had  used  this  tragic  Samson,  to  mock  him  at 
the  last  with  pearls  whose  very  reason  for  having  been 
strung,  even,  he  could  not  understand !  The  irony  of  it 
— that  his  fortune  should  be  cast  in  the  shape  of  shapes 
to  clasp  a  woman's  eager  neck !  That  he  could  never  see 
their  glow  mirrored  in  her  eyes  nor  feel  them  warmed 
from  her  body ! 

She  leaned  across  the  little  table  and  laid  her  hand  im- 
pulsively on  his:  it  was  icy  under  her  light  fingers  and 
quivered  pitifully. 

"But  why  should  you  die,  monsieur?"  she  said  softly. 
"Do  not  think  of  such  things.  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
live  for  many  years." 

He  dropped  his  hands  and  stared  at  her  till  the  dilated 
pupils  made  his  eyes  as  dark  as  her  own. 

"Thou  sayest  it?    Truly?"  he  gasped. 

"Why  not?"  she  returned  composedly. 

He  drew  a  deep,  sobbing  breath  like  a  child's. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said  simply.  "One  does  not  like  to 
die." 

His  great  chest,  hairy  in  the  triangle  of  his  open  shirt, 
heaved  convulsively.  It  was  clear  that  he  could  hardly 
bring  himself  to  eat,  just  then,  so  Evelyn  finished  her 
meal  alone,  not  looking  at  him,  feeling  instinctively  that 
he  would  quiet,  little  by  little,  as  a  timid  animal  or  child 
will  do  if  unobserved. 

In  order  to  help  him  the  more  at  this  she  rose  care- 
lessly and  walked  to  the  door  of  the  cabin,  drew  a  cigar- 
ette case  unconsciously  from  the  broad  patch-pocket  of 
her  walking  skirt  and  glanced  about  for  a  match,  help- 

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ing  herself  to  one  as  soon  as  she  saw  the  box  in  its  tin 
holder  near  the  stove.  It  was  amazing  how  greatly  she 
felt  at  her  ease :  it  was  like  being  with  some  shy  French 
guide,  say,  on  a  Canadian  fishing  trip,  who  might  have 
lamed  himself  by  a  fall  on  the  rocks.  She  had  never 
encountered,  never  imagined  such  shyness:  it  was  as 
though  she  were  some  incredible  visitant  from  another 
world.  Undoubtedly  the  monastery  was  the  place  for 
such  a  type:  the  wise  provision  of  the  Church  would 
find  just  the  corner  for  this  timid  and  devout  giant,  a 
sunny  corner  under  some  protecting  crucifix,  that  would 
keep  him  as  innocent  and  useful  as  he  could  ever  be — a 
fair  exchange,  when  all  was  said,  for  his  beautiful,  dan- 
gerous pearls !  If  such  an  anachronism  as  one  could  not 
but  feel  a  monk  to  be,  had  ever,  in  these  days,  an  excuse 
for  existence,  it  was  surely  in  the  person  of  this  man; 
only  the  most  brutally  bigoted  could  have  grudged  his 
wealth  to  the  eager  Church,  his  only  sanctuary. 

She  watched  him  covertly  as  he  wheeled  himself  about 
with  the  greatest  economy  of  movement,  washing  his 
cups  and  plates,  feeding  his  fire,  disposing  of  all  waste 
and  litter  with  the  deftness  of  the  woodsman.  The  tasks 
ceased  to  appear  domestic  and  feminine:  one  was  re- 
minded, inevitably,  of  the  camper  and  the  sailor.  And 
his  averted,  determined  silence  was  not,  after  a  while, 
embarrassing  or  disagreeable:  no  one  who  pursues  his 
ordinary  routine  creates  embarrassment,  and  this  silent 
busyness  was  obviously  the  man's  regular  course;  his 
day  must  necessarily  be  made  up  of  just  these  merciful 
tasks,  and  the  wisdom  of  someone,  his  father,  doubtless, 
had  ingrained  in  him  this  routine,  this  self-respect  of 
order  and  cleanliness,  this  ritual  of  meals  as  carefully 
ordained  as  those  of  a  man-of-war  or  a  barrack. 

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Some  instinct  told  her  not  to  offer  to  assist  him,  but 
while  he  worked  she  moved  gradually  nearer  and  began 
to  talk  in  low  tones. 

"M.  Vrooman  told  me  of  you,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "of 
you  and  Pere  Antoine.  It  interested  me  very  much,  your 
lonely  life  in  the  woods." 

He  turned  his  eyes  a  quick,  scared  moment  in  her 
direction.  For  a  breath  she  feared  that  her  cigarette 
might  shock  him,  but  perceived  instantly  that  for  any 
preconceptions  of  his  she  might  as  well  have  smoked  an 
East  Indian  hookah  or  the  Red  Man's  pipe  of  peace !  It 
is  true  that  his  eyes  lingered  on  the  burning  tip  in  her 
hand,  but  with  no  more  shock  than  he  had  plainly  ex- 
perienced when  she  drank  the  coffee. 

"Is  Pere  Antoine  to  come  soon?"  he  asked,  with  that 
curious  gasp  that  prefixed  all  his  speech  with  her. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replied. 

His  eyes,  as  transparent  as  a  child's,  told  her  with 
absolute  certainty  that  he  did  not — could  not — believe 
her. 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  went  on. 

"As  you  will,"  he  said  submissively,  and  turned  from 
her  again. 

"You  see,  monsieur,  I  do  not  know  Pere  Antoine,"  she 
persisted.  "I  only  know  what  M.  Vrooman  told  me  of 
him.  M.  Vrooman,  who  attended  to  your  business  affairs 
in  regard  to — to  your  inheritance,  is  the  notary  for  my 
family  also,  and  told  me  of  your  history,  and  the  sad 
death  of  your  father." 

"May  his  soul  rest  in  peace,"  he  murmured  and  bowed 
his  head.  His  face  worked  under  the  beard,  and  he  drew 
his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  openly  as  a  boy  of  seven  might 
have  done. 

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"One  sees  what  a  loss  it  must  have  been,"  she  went 
on  gently.  "There  can  be  few  cases  where  a  death  could 
mean  so  much.  I,  like  many  others,  lost  my  father,  but  I 
know  well  it  could  not  be  compared  to  what  you  must 
feel,  for  I  had  other  relatives  and  friends — Oh,  what  is 
it?  What  is  it?" 

For  the  look  of  horror  in  his  eyes  was  such  as  she  had 
never  seen,  and  she  realized  herself  in  the  presence  of  a 
soul  shocked  and  tortured  beyond  anything  her  words 
could  have  evoked. 

"What  have  I  said,  monsieur?"  she  cried.  "Tell  me, 
I  beg  you,  what  have  I  said?" 

"Thy  father?" 

He  choked  on  the  words,  and  she  had  a  strange  sense 
of  a  terrible  fear  in  him  conquered,  so  that  he  might 
speak,  by  a  superhuman  effort  of  the  will,  "Thy  father!" 

She  felt  like  a  woman  in  a  nightmare.  Only  in  dreams 
had  she  seen  such  an  agonized  look  on  any  face. 

"Surely,  my  father,"  she  said  as  firmly  as  she  could. 
"Why  not?  I  must  have  had  a  father,  like  all  the  world, 
is  it  not  so?" 

He  only  stared  at  her,  with  his  green-blue  eyes  turned 
black. 

"Women,  as  well  as  men,  have  fathers,  have  they  not?" 
she  went  on. 

"Women!    Yes,  I  know  that,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"Then,  why  not  I?  For  I  am  a  woman,  as  you  see," 
she  pressed  on,  looking  at  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

'"A  woman?    Thou,  a  woman?"  he  demanded. 

"Surely,"  she  returned  impatiently,  "what  else  ?  What 
did  you  think?" 

"I  thought  you  must  be  the  Mother  of  God !"  he  an- 
swered calmly. 

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Her  amazed  flush  and  sudden  pallor  convinced  him, 
apparently,  beyond  any  power  of  speech. 

"Why  not?"  he  said  eagerly.  "What  else  should  I 
think?  She  comes.  We  know  that  She  comes.  Only 
last  week  Pere  Antoine  told  me  of  a  man  in  Brittany  that 
was  a  wood-cutter  and  his  wife  died,  and  She  came,  in 
the  dress  of  a  wife,  and  spoke  with  him.  But  I  do  not 
know  that  She  ate.  Arid  afterward  he  died,  and  now 
there  is  a  church  there.  And  so  I  thought  ...  I 
thought  .  .  ." 

He  began  to  stammer  slightly  and  stared  at  her.  Even 
while  speaking  his  expression  had  altered;  his  eyes  were 
blue  again,  his  breathing  more  regular,  his  voice  from  a 
husky  bass  had  settled  to  the  resonant  fresh  baritone 
she  had  heard  through  the  closed  door. 

"No,  no,  mon  ami,  a  thousand  times  no !"  Evelyn  cried, 
relief  and  amusement  and  pity  so  curiously  mingled  in 
her  that  her  own  voice  trembled.  "How  could  you  have 
thought  that?  Heavens,  no!  I  am  all  that  there  is  of 
earthly — not  even  a  good  Catholic  like  yourself." 

He  pressed  his  arms  into  the  dingy  leather  pads  of  his 
chair. 

"Then  why  did  you  come?"  he  asked  abruptly.  "No 
one  has  come  before.  Why  did  you  come?" 

A  look  slipped  into  Evelyn's  eyes  and  spread  inde- 
scribably over  her  face,  as  ripples  widen  in  a  still  pool 
from  a  suddenly  flung  stone:  a  look  that  would  have 
baffled  all  the  Bleecks  and  Jays. 

"I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  would  like  to  marry  me," 
she  said. 


VI! 


HE  turned  his  face  toward  her  and  met  her  eyes 
calmly. 
"To  marry  me  ?"  he  repeated  doubtfully. 

She  nodded.  Her  throat  was  quite  dry,  and  she  un- 
derstood perfectly  that  no  sound  would  have  come  from 
it.  Otherwise  she  had  no  feeling  at  all,  of  any  sort.  It 
was  not  even  her  will  of  the  moment  that  spoke :  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  her  business  was  to  get  home,  and 
she  must  wait  for  the  priest  to  take  her  there.  But  the 
Evelyn  that  underlay  this  dry-throated  woman  with  the 
blank  mind,  the  Evelyn  that  drove  her  as  the  rudder 
drives  the  ship,  had  shaped  her  whirling  thoughts  for 
fifteen  hours  to  this  one  end,  had  stamped  these  phrases 
upon  her  white-hot  soul ;  and  they  were  doomed  to  leave 
her  lips  as  surely  as  the  notes  must  leave  the  unconscious 
rubber  disk  of  the  phonograph. 

"But  I  cannot  marry,  me,"  he  said,  very  simply,  "Pere 
Antoine  has  told  me.  I  am  not  like  another,  you  see.  It 
it  better  for  me,  he  thinks,  to  go  to  the  Brothers." 

"I  know,"  she  heard  that  other  Evelyn  saying,  gently, 
"I  know.  One  sees  that  perfectly.  But  I  had  thought 
that  it  might  be  you  would  like  to  see  more  of  the  world 
than  the  Brothers  could  show  you.  I  had  thought  that  it 
might  be  you  were  not  eager  to  lead  the  life  of  a  religious, 
even  though  you  were  not  opposed  to  it;  that  perhaps 
with  someone  who  could  help  you  and — and  teach  you, 

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and  make  things  easy,  it  might  please  you  to  see  other 
lands,  other  people,  other  ways  of  living." 

His  eyes  never  left  her  eyes ;  not  a  muscle  of  his  face 
moved.  Only  when  she  said,  "other  lands,  other  people," 
the  sea-blue  of  his  eyes  grew  suddenly  black  under  hers 
and  his  great  chest  lifted  like  a  wave;  she  seemed  sud- 
denly to  be  pouring  the  wonders  of  Puss-in-Boots  or 
Beauty  and  the  Beast  into  the  hungry  gaze  of  a  lonely 
child. 

"Was  I  right?"  she  asked  abruptly.  "Would  you  like 
to  see — the  rest  of  the  world  ?" 

"Ah,  yes — the  world!"  he  said  slowly.    "The  world!" 

He  started  suddenly. 

"That  would  be  Switzerland,  too  ?"  he  asked.  "Would 
it  not?  Pere  Antoine  has  told  me  of  that.  I  should  like 
to  see  the  mountains  with  snow  on  them." 

"You  could  see  the  mountains,  and  even  ascend  them," 
she  heard  that  other  Evelyn  reply. 

His  eyes  dropped  to  the  clumsy  chair  in  which  he  sat. 

"But  I  could  not — in  this,"  he  said  sadly. 

"You  are  rich,  my  friend,"  she  answered  quietly,  "and 
if  one  is  rich  enough  he  can  ascend  mountains  in  a  chair." 

"That  is  what  he  said — Monsieur  the  notary — that  I 
was  rich.  But  he  said  nothing  of  the  mountains." 

"Because  he  thought  there  would  be  no  use,"  she  said. 
"He  knew  there  must  be  someone  to  take  you.  I  knew 
that,  too,  and  I  came  to  teil  you  that  I  was  willing  to  be 
that  one — if  you  cared  to  go." 

"Oh,  I !  I  care  to  go — indeed  I  care  to  go !"  he  cried. 
"But — but  you  said  that  you  came  to  marry  me." 

"And  so  I  did,"  she  said  patiently,  "so  that  I  could  go 
•with  you.  I  could  not,  unless." 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

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She  laughed  uncertainly.  The  whole  affair  seemed 
like  a  dream :  she  must  have  been  dreaming  when  she 
planned  it.  She  looked  at  the  massive,  helpless  creature 
before  her,  suddenly,  as  any  one  of  the  Bleecks  might 
have — it  was  too  grotesque. 

"Because  it  would  not  be  ...  because  otherwise,  peo- 
ple ...  we  could  not  possibly — Oh,  but  it  is  ridiculous !" 
she  cried  impatiently.  Among  these  trees,  alone  between 
the  brown  pine  needles  and  the  blue  sky  with  this  deep- 
chested,  grave-eyed  child,  each  answer  that  she  began 
showed  itself  so  insufficient,  so  feeble,  that  she  could  not 
complete  it. 

"Why,  indeed?" 

Then  all  at  once  she  saw  her  answer. 

"Out  in  the  world,  monsieur,  there  are  many  ways  and 
customs  which  you  would  have  to  learn,"  she  said,  seri- 
ously, "and  one  of  these  customs  is  that  a  man  and  a 
woman  must  not  travel  over  the  world  together,  if  they 
are  not  of  the  same  family,  unless  they  first  marry  each 
other.  There  are  many  reasons  for  it,  some  very  good 
and  some  very  foolish — I  think  that  in  your  case  the 
reasons  would  be,  perhaps,  foolish  ones — but  people 
would  not  like  it  unless  you  followed  the  rule." 

"Ah,"  he  said  gravely. 

His  eyes  clouded;  his  shoulders  drooped. 

"It  is  a  sad  rule  for  me,"  he  said,  "because  I  cannot 
marry,  you  see." 

"Not  as  Pere  Antoine  meant,  no  .  .  ."  she  agreed, 
wondering  that  she  felt  so  little  as  she  would  have  sup- 
posed one  must  feel.  And  indeed,  it  might  not  have  been 
so  easy  to  say,  had  she  not  long  ago  given  up  the  mad 
scheme  that  had  driven  her  through  the  woods  that  morn- 
ing. But  this  Evelyn  was  most  like  a  subject  of  hypnotic 

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suggestion:  even  though  the  message  she  bore  had 
ceased  to  have  any  personal  meaning  for  her,  it  must  be 
delivered,  on  some  strange  inner  compulsion. 

"You  could  not  marry,  in  the  ordinary  sense,"  she 
went  on,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  recites  a  lesson,  "but 
men  have  been  married  on  their  dying  beds,  even,  and  it 
is  a — a  marriage  .  .  ." 

Under  her  mechanical  words,  under  the  verbs  and 
nouns  that  her  facile  tongue  wove  into  sentences,  her 
own  mind — not  the  mind  of  this  other  Evelyn,  obsessed 
and  driven — worked  clearly  and  consciously. 

"How  foolish  it  is — what  I  am  saying!"  she  thought. 
"How  foolishly  we  twist  words,  'out  in  the  world/  to 
deceive  and  justify  ourselves.  Of  course,  a  man  cannot 
be  married  on  his  dying  bed:  he  can  only  make  a  legal 
arrangement  to  leave  some  woman  his  property!" 

"But  how  can  he  marry,  if  he  is  dying?"  came  the  deep, 
baritone  question. 

It  was  the  rich  voice  of  a  man :  the  perplexed,  bewil- 
dered tone  of  a  little  child.  But  she  was  accustomed  to 
this  by  now,  and  answered  the  tone  and  not  the  voice. 

"He  cannot,"  she  said  quietly,  "not  as  your  father  and 
your  mother  were  married.  That  is  what  Pere  Antoine 
means.  But  there  is  a  marriage  of  law  as  well  as  a  mar- 
riage of  fact  .  .  .  can  you  understand  what  I  mean  ?" 

His  heavy  brows  met  in  a  perplexed  scowl. 

"I — I  am  not  sure  .  .  .  does  Pere  Antoine  know  of 
that  sort  of  marriage?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Everyone  knows  of  it,"  she  answered  briefly. 

"Then  you  could  go  to  Switzerland  with  me?  There 
is  a  church  in  a  town — it  is  called  Brieg — it  was  his 
church  for  many  years  when  he  was  a  young  man.  I 
have  so  much  wanted  to  see  that  church !" 

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She  smiled.  All  at  once  the  two  Evelyns  melted  into 
each  other  and  all  the  strain  relaxed.  She  was  perfectly 
herself  now:  her  lesson  was  recited.  The  thing  was 
over,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

"I  could  go,"  she  said  gently,  "but  I  am  afraid  now 
that  I  cannot.  You  see,  monsieur,  when  I  heard  about 
you,  and  thought  how  we  might  help  each  other  (  for  you 
could  help  me  with  your  money,  of  which  I  have  none, 
and  I  could  help  you  with  my  experience  of  how  to  use 
that  money,  of  which  you  have  none) " 

She  broke  off  abruptly. 

"Does  that  seem  to  you  a  fair  bargain  ?"  she  demanded. 

"But  yes — why  not  ?"  he  answered.    She  nodded. 

"When,  as  I  say,  I  thought  of  this,  I  pictured  you  to 
myself  as  quite  different  from — from  what  I  find  you," 
she  went  on,  a  little  less  easily  now. 

"Different?    Different?    But  how?"  he  asked. 

"It  was  foolish  of  me,  perhaps,  but  I  thought  of  you  as 
ill,  suffering  .  .  .  delicate,  at  least,  and — and  not  so — so 
large  .  .  ." 

She  felt  unreasoningly  embarrassed,  literally  for  the 
first  time.  No  previous  explanation  had  been  half  so 
difficult  as  this  one:  his  steady,  perplexed  stare  con- 
fused her. 

"You  mean  you  wish  me  to  be  ill — suffering?" 

"That  is  absurd,  monsieur — I  did  not  say  so,"  she  an- 
swered sharply. 

"I  only  meant  that  I  have  had  much  experience  with 
invalids  and  that  I  know  how  to  be  patient  with  them  and 
entertain  them  and — Oh,  I  am  used  to  their  ways !"  she 
ended,  breathing  hard.  "But  you — you  do  not  impress 
me  as  an  invalid,  monsieur." 

"You  mean  I  am  a  large  man — and  strong  ?"  he  asked, 

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trying,  visibly,  to  see  from  her  point  of  view,  his  eyes 
searching  her  face  pathetically. 

"Something  like  that,  I  suppose — yes,"  she  said  stiffly. 

"But — but  ...  I  do  not  understand !  You  would  help 
me  to  go  to  Brieg  if  I  were  weakly,  but  you  will  not, 
because  I  am  not  small?  Is  it  that?" 

He  spread  out  his  long,  powerful  arms  and  opened 
and  closed  his  big  hands.  The  finger-nails  were  broken 
but  the  fingers  were  supple  and  well  shaped ;  though  large 
hands  and  hairy,  they  were  not  coarse,  and  the  wrists 
were  like  a  fencer's. 

"It  sounds  absurd,  what  you  say,  monsieur,"  she  be- 
gan, "and  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  explain  it  very  well.  But 
that  is  the  way  I  feel.  One  makes  pictures  in  one's  mind, 
you  see " 

"Oh,  yes,  one  makes  pictures  .  .  .  pictures  .  .  ."  he 
interrupted  wistfully.  His  eyes  were  fixed  above  her 
head,  patient  and  hopeless.  His  empty  life  unrolled  like 
a  ribbon  before  her,  and  she  spoke  quickly,  to  hide  her 
pity. 

"They  say  that  women  are  especially  foolish  about 
making  such  pictures,"  she  went  on  hastily,  "and  more 
apt  to  be  vexed  if  the  reality  does  not  match  them." 

"More  apt?" 

"Than  men,"  she  explained. 

"Oh.    Are  they  different,  then,  women  and  men?" 

"One  would  suppose,  to  listen  to  many  people,  that 
they  are  the  two  most  different  things  in  the  world,"  she 
said  bitterly. 

"So  that  women  do  not  wish  to  see  the  other  people 
and  the  other  lands?  They  would  not  care  for  Switzer- 
land?" he  inquired  earnestly. 

Evelyn  laughed  shortly. 

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"How  different  do  I  seem  to  you,  monsieur?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  me — I  should  not  know,"  he  said  humbly.  "Pere 
Antoine  says  that  it  is  useless  and  wrong  for  me  to  think 
of  women.  And,  indeed,  how  should  I?  I  like  to  hear 
you  speak — your  voice  is  not  so  rough  and  loud  as  my 
own.  And,  of  course,  you  are  much  smaller.  But  then, 
you  are  larger  than  Pere  Antoine,  and,  I  should  think, 
stronger.  Your  face  changes  from  red  to  white  oftener 
than  I  supposed  was  the  rule — is  it  because  you  are  a 
woman  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered  listlessly.  She  felt,  sud- 
denly, very  tired.  She  was  quite  accustomed  to  her  curi- 
ous host,  by  now,  and  felt  no  effort  in  talking  with  him. 
Her  chief  thought  was  of  the  long,  tiring  journey  back 
to  the  camp ;  for  it  seemed  very  long,  now,  and  unthink- 
ably  tiring.  She  was  no  longer  an  adventurer  into  daring 
straits :  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world  confronted  with 
Caliban — a  pathetic  Caliban,  to  be  sure,  and  in  many 
ways  an  appealing  one,  but  Caliban  nevertheless.  It  was 
for  the  civilizing  and  satisfying  of  such  that  the  Church 
existed;  it  would  have  been  a  dreadful  fate  for  him, 
poor  fellow,  to  be  thrown  to  the  wolves  of  the  world 
outside,  he  and  his  terrible,  beautiful  pearls ! 

She  realized  all  at  once  that  there  was  utter  silence  in 
the  cabin.  They  sat,  each  of  them,  their  hands  in  their 
laps,  their  eyes  half  closed.  Once,  when  he  raised  his, 
she  saw  that  he  had  ceased  to  notice  her:  accustomed 
to  long  spaces  of  silence,  or  too  timid  to  speak  unless 
spoken  to,  he  had  sunk  into  his  thoughts.  She  fought  a 
strange  drowsiness  that  all  but  overwhelmed  her,  her 
head  resting  on  the  hard  back  of  the  wooden  armchair. 
Curious  half-dreams  struggled  with  her  consciousness  of 

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the  place  and  time :  a  great,  bearded  man  seemed  to 
seize  her  and  run  with  her,  helpless,  up  the  snowy  peaks 
of  Switzerland.  She  tried  to  control  him,  for  he  had 
been  used  to  be  kindly,  but  he  had  turned  into  a  fanatic, 
with  a  tonsure  and  a  rope  girdle,  and  called  out  in  a 
baritone  like  a  trumpet  that  she  must  be  dashed  over  the 
cliff  because  she  had  dared  to  personate  the  Virgin  .  .  . 

A  knock  that  was  the  crash  of  an  avalanche  in  her 
stupor  of  fatigue,  brought  her  bolt  upright.  In  the  open 
door  stood  two  men,  one  slight  and  small,  with  kindly, 
peering  eyes — Pere  Antoine,  beyond  a  doubt.  The  other 
was  James  Vrooman. 

She  rose  and  faced  him,  surprised,  defiant,  and  yet 
strangely  relieved.  After  all,  she  and  he  were  the  only 
realities  in  this  dreamlike  day. 

"Did  you — were  you — how  did  you " 

"So  I  was  not  so  far  wrong,  after  all,"  he  said  quickly. 
"It  was  merely  that  I  missed  my  little  map,  my  dear 
young  lady,  and  that  I  recalled  suddenly  the  precise  psy- 
chological moment  when  you  nearly  had  us  out  of  the 
canoe  last  night !  And  so  I  thought  I  would  come  up  to 
— to  Mr.  Card's  cabin  and " 

"And  reason  with  me?"  she  said  bitterly. 

"And  be  of  any  service  that  I  could,"  he  answered, 
meeting  her  eyes  frankly. 

It  was  characteristic  of  them  that  they  spoke  as  if  they 
were  alone:  the  priest  and  the  owner  of  the  cabin 
watched  them  as  spectators  watch  a  play  on  the  stage. 

"I  see,"  Evelyn  said  slowly,  "thank  you.  You  are  very 
clever,  Mr.  Vrooman.  But  I  shall  not  require  any  fur- 
ther service  than  your  very  welcome  escort  home." 

"I  thought  of  that,  too,"  said  he. 

The  little  priest  now  stepped  with  a  quiet  dignity  to 


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the  side  of  the  wheeled  chair  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  man  who  sat  in  it. 

"Eh  bien,  mon  fils,"  he  began,  as  if  unconscious  of 
Evelyn,  "M.  Vrooman  and  I  have  spoken  much  of  thee 
and  thy  life  with  the  good  Brothers " 

"Oh,  my  father,"  cried  the  other,  clasping  the  slender, 
nervous  hand  of  the  priest  in  his  great  grip,  so  that  it 
was  lost,  as  a  child's  would  have  been,  "I  do  not  want  to 
go  to  your  good  Brothers !  She  came,  and  she  said  she 
came  to  take  me  to  Brieg,  and  I  could  ascend  the  moun- 
tains even  in  a  chair,  and — Oh,  my  father,  I  might  even 
know  the  sea !  She  came  to  marry  me — and  there  is  a 
marriage,  even  on  a  deathbed  (not  as  you  meant,  but 
another)  and  then — then " 

He  panted  like  a  heartbroken  child,  close  on  a  sob,  and 
gripped  the  priest  till  he  drew  'the  slight  figure  half  over 
the  chair. 

"Then — she  would  not!  She  would  not,  my  father, 
because  I  am  too  strong  and  large  .  .  .  too  strong  and 
large !"  he  groaned,  and  his  eyes,  like  a  great,  hurt  dog's, 
met  Evelyn's  reproachfully. 

James  Vrooman  jerked  out  a  short  whispered  oath  of 
pure  amazement— it  was  the  first  time  Evelyn  had  ever 
seen  him  caught  off  his  guard.  The  priest  wrenched  him- 
self gently  free  of  the  giant's  clasp  and  faced  her.  His 
shrewd,  ascetic  face  with  its  keen  gray  eyes  met  hers 
squarely  and  coldly. 

"Madame,"  he  said  with  a  slight  inclination,  "I  have 
not  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance " 

"Pardon  me,  father,  but  I  have,"  said  Vrooman 
smoothly.  "It  is  not  my  habit  to  interrupt,  for  I  have 
never  found  it  an  advisable  habit,  but  I  am  going  to  do 
so  now,  with  your  permission,  for  I  believe  that  I  can 

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explain  to  you  and — and  Mr.  Card  more  clearly  than 
anyone  else  the  reason  of  this  lady's  visit — and  my  own. 
I  am  the  only  person  of  us  four  in  the  room,"  he  went 
on  with  a  slight,  whimsical  smile,  "who  has  the  advan- 
tage of  knowing  the  other  three,  and  I  think  I  dare  to 
say  that  I  understand,  in  a  general  way,  the  point  of 
view  of  each  of  these  three.  Have  I  your  permission, 
father,  and  yours,  Card,  and  yours,"  he  bowed  to  Evelyn, 
"to  explain  what  I  consider  to  be  the  situation  in  which 
we  find  ourselves  ?" 

Evelyn  nodded,  carelessly,  it  seemed ;  the  priest  after  a 
slight  hesitation  bowed  with  a  certain  clumsy  dignity ; 
Card  looked  eagerly  at  his  visitor  but  did  not  speak  or 
nod.  His  attitude,  however,  was  quite  clear,  and  the 
lawyer  drew  what  might  have  been  a  breath  of  relief 
and  motioned  Evelyn  to  the  chair  she  had  just  left. 

"Sit  down,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  will  sit  near 
your  pupil,  father,  I  will  sit,  myself.  So,  now  we  are 
comfortable." 

The  quiet,  businesslike  English  words  made  the  last 
hour  even  more  unreal  to  her.  She  realized  at  that 
moment  that  she  could  never  have  talked  in  her  own 
language  as  she  had  talked  in  the  priest's. 

"I  do  not  know  your  precise  views  on  marriage,  your 
reverence,  but  I  assume  them  to  be  those  of  any  good 
churchman,"  Vrooman  began.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair, 
his  khaki  legs  crossed,  showing  his  firm  calves,  his  clean 
shaven  face  shadowed  by  the  black  ribbon  of  his  pince- 
nez. 

"The  institution  of  marriage,"  the  little  priest  began 
stiffly,  "besides  being  a  symbol  of  Christ's  love  for  the 
Church,  was  without  doubt  instituted  for  the  purpose 
of ." 

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"Precisely,"  Vrooman  interrupted,  "there  seems  to  be 
no  reasonable  doubt  of  the  purpose,  your  reverence. 
And  I  have  no  doubt  that  among  your  parishioners 
this  purpose  is  more  readily  accomplished  through 
what  is  called  the  falling  in  love  of  the  contracting  par- 
ties?" 

"That  is  so,"  the  priest  agreed,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
on  his  guard,  adding  immediately,  "of  course." 

"As  you  say,"  Vrooman  continued,  "of  course.  Never- 
theless, there  are  many  highly  creditable  instances  where 
it  has  been  necessary — or  thought  necessary — especially 
by  your  great  and  eminently  practical  Church  (for  many 
reasons  of  state,  concerning  the  welfare  of  many  souls) 
to  dispense  with  this  so-called  falling  in  love.  I  need 
not,  I  am  sure,  cite  historical  and  contemporary  exam- 
ples .  .  ." 

"I  understand,"  said  Pere  Antoine  briefly,  and  the 
lawyer  nodded. 

"I  have  often  thought  it  highly  curious,"  he  continued 
reflectively,  "that  civilization  dispenses  so  universally,  at 
a  certain  point,  with  two  of  the  cardinal  reasons  for 
marriage — the  falling  (as  it  is  called)  in  love,  and  the 
continuation  of  the  species.  Every  nation  passes  through 
a  stage,  the  Hebrews,  for  instance,  when  the  latter  reason 
becomes  so  imperative  that  even  polygamy  is  eagerly 
resorted  to,  in  order  to  build  up  a  national  body  capable 
of  self-defense.  And  in  my  own  country,  the  last  strong- 
hold of  determined  sentimentalism,  the  mere  incident  of 
falling  into  what  is  called  love  by  the  writers  and  readers 
of  novels,  has  always  been  used  as  an  excuse  for  marry- 
ing in  haste  and  repenting  at  leisure." 

He  looked  over  Evelyn's  head  and  addressed  the  pine 
walls  judicially;  something  in  the  very  sound  of  his  easy, 

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quizzical  voice  soothed  each  person  in  the  room  and  loos- 
ened the  tension  in  the  air. 

"If  one  were  about  to  fall  into  a  crevasse,"  he  said, 
"one  might  be  reasonably  sure  of  a  friendly  warning. 
But  who  warns  those  about  to  fall  into  love  ?" 

He  took  off  his  glasses,  delicately  rimmed  with  the 
merest  shade  of  tortoise-shell,  and  polished  each  lens 
with  a  cream-colored  silk  handkerchief. 

"But  there  is  a  third  cardinal  reason  for  marriage," 
said  he,  "that  no  nation,  in  any  stage  of  civilization,  has 
ever  overlooked  or  undervalued.  From  the  cave-woman, 
who  brought  a  dowry  of  a  stone  axehead  and  a  carved 
walrus  tooth  to  her  mate,  down  to  (or  shall  we  say  up 
to?)  our  modern  Chicago  duchesses,  the  use  of  the  mar- 
riage ceremony  for  the  distribution  and  perpetuation  of 
property  has  never  been  questioned  nor  altered.  I  need 
not  suggest  to  your  reverence  the  exceedingly  far-sighted 
policy  of  your  church,  in  this  regard,  during  the  Middle 
Ages?" 

Father  Antoine  smiled  and  shook  his  head :  the  few 
occasions  of  his  meeting  James  Vrooman  had  been  very 
precious  to  him. 

"Speaking  as  a  lawyer,  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  that 
this  last  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  only  constant  factor 
in  marriage,"  Vrooman  went  on  placidly.  "One  may  or 
may  not  fall  (to  use  the  phrase)  in  love ;  one  may  or  may 
not  have  issue ;  but  one  invariably,  almost  necessarily,  in 
any  civilized  state  of  society,  hands  over  some  marketable 
commodity  in  return  for  another  marketable  commodity. 
As  civilization  advances  the  commodity  becomes,  doubt- 
less, more  intangible,  less — less  savagely  obvious,  shall 
we  say?  But  it  is  nevertheless  there  and  highly  valu- 
able." 

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He  replaced  the  silk  handkerchief,  adjusted  the  glasses 
to  his  nose,  and  posing  his  hands  on  his  knees,  leaned 
forward  squarely  on  both  his  well-shod  feet,  driving  his 
keen,  positive  eyes  into  the  doubtful  eyes  of  the  little 
priest. 

"Let  me  give  you  an  example,  father,"  he  said,  drop- 
ping his  practical  voice  to  a  confidential  tone.  "I  am 
extremely  fond  of  music,  and  I  have  employed  for  many 
years  a  blind  piano-tuner,  who  comes  to  my  house  every 
two  months  to  keep  my  instrument  to  the  perfection  of 
pitch  required  by  my  musical  friends,  of  whom  I  am  so 
fortunate  as  to  possess  several.  He  has  been  for  ten 
years  assisted  by  an  adopted  nephew,  a  bright  lad  whom 
I  have  seen  grow  up.  The  boy  married  last  year  and 
was  offered  by  his  father-in-law  an  extremely  advanta- 
geous business  opening  in  the  West.  This  would  leave 
my  tuner  worse  than  alone — totally  disabled,  in  fact. 
He  was  capable  of  earning  a  good  living — a  very  good 
living,  as  his  business  goes,  for  people  make  a  point  of 
employing  such  a  plucky  and  competent  workman. 

"But  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  have  a  companion 
whom  he  could  trust,  absolutely ;  who  would  never  leave 
his  side,  practically ;  whose  interests  would  be  merged  in 
his.  He  had  to  decide,  he  told  me,  between  a  partner  and 
a  wife,  and  on  my  advice  he  chose  the  wife.  He  knew  of 
no  one,  as,  both  from  principle  (he  was  born  blind)  and 
by  inclination,  he  never  associated  with  women,  his  only 
recreation  being  chess,  which  he  plays  at  a  blind  man's 
club.  So  at  his  request  I  took  up  the  matter  for  him  and 
suggested  to  an  ex-stenographer  of  mine,  a  woman  of 
middle  age  and  appearance  so  unprepossessing  that  it 
stood  against  her  in  a  pushing  day  and  generation,  that 
she  might  do  worse  than  join  fortunes  with  a  man  whose 

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business  I  knew  would  interest  her,  as  she  loved  music, 
and  he  himself  was  a  more  than  fair  pianist.  She  had 
no  future  that  I  could  see,  and  illness  had  eaten  into  her 
small  savings. 

"Well,"  he  concluded,  settling  back  in  his  chair,  "they 
married.  They  both  assure  me  that  they  have  never  been 
so  happy.  His  home  was  never  so  well  kept,  she  has 
proven  to  be  a  cleverer  assistant  than  his  nephew,  and,  as 
she  put  it  to  me,  aside  from  the  fact  that  she  is  no  longer 
worried  to  death  as  to  the  bare  necessities  of  existence, 
she  has  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  she  is  of  some  use 
in  the  world." 

He  paused. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"I  think  you  did  a  good  deed  there,"  the  priest  an- 
swered warmly. 

"I  thought  so,  too,"  said  Vrooman.  He  turned  his 
chair  slightly,  cutting  off  his  own  view  of  Evelyn's  face. 

"Father  Antoine,"  he  said,  "your  charge,  here,  is  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  blind.  He  is  in  possession  of  a 
large — to  many  people,  a  princely — fortune.  But  he  is 
as  unable  to  use  it  unassisted  as  my  piano-tuner  was  to 
get  his  living.  And  where  there  were  a  dozen  dishonest 
men  to  cheat  that  poor  fellow  and  steal  his  little  earnings 
in  disbursing  them,  holding  him  utterly  at  their  mercy 
for  the  means  of  gaining  more,  even,  there  are  a  hundred 
scoundrels  ready  to  cheat  Card  on  exactly  the  same  basis. 
Only,  as  the  bait  is  richer,  the  scoundrels  will  be  cleverer. 
He  is  as  unfitted  to  confront  the  world  he  wants  to  see 
as  a  blind  puppy  or  kitten.  I  am  a  man  of  wide  acquain- 
tance, and  I  could  undoubtedly  find  for  him  someone — 
call  him  tutor,  secretary,  traveling  companion  or  what- 
ever, who  would  willingly — nay,  eagerly  undertake  the 

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affair.  I  am,  so  far  as  he  has  one,  his  executor,  so  to 
speak,  and  I  could  not  fail  to  be  interested  in  so  unusual 
a  case. 

"But  I  tell  you  frankly,  I  shrank  from  the  job.  I 
shrank  from  it  because  I  knew  human  nature,  and  I  real- 
ized that  the  temptations  in  the  way  of  any  but  the  most 
exceptional  man  would  be  too  great.  Your  pupil  would 
be  at  the  mercy  of  so  many  different  kinds  of  scoundrels, 
fanatics  and  beggars,  that  the  only  man  big  enough  and 
experienced  enough  to  devote  himself  to  managing  his 
affairs  would  be  unlikely  to  care  to  undertake  it.  Most 
men  capable  of  handling  the  income  of  a  million  and  a 
half  dollars  are  capable  of  earning  it — in  my  opinion." 

The  priest  nodded. 

"I  believe  you  are  right  there,"  he  said. 

"And  so,  when  you  told  me  your  plans  for  Card,  and 
I  saw  how  religious  he  was  by  nature  and  training  and 
how  well  fitted  for  the  life  of  a  recluse,  I  was  glad  that 
Providence  had  settled  the  matter  and  that  it  was  a  re- 
sponsibility well  off  my  shoulders,"  Vrooman  went  on. 

The  priest's  brow  cleared ;  he  nodded  and  smiled. 

"I  am  glad  you  agree  with  me,  sir,"  he  said. 

Vrooman  pursed  his  firm  lips  and  slightly  narrowed 
his  lids. 

"I  say  I  was  glad,"  he  repeated.  "Since  I  have  heard 
what — what  we  both  heard,  when  we  came  here,  I  have 
found  reason  to  alter  my  opinion.  I  do  not  feel  that 
Card  will  be  so  contented  as  a  recluse  as  we  had 
thought." 

The  priest  scowled,  then  shot  a  curious,  doubtful 
glance,  as  troubled  as  a  loving  woman's,  at  the  silent  fig- 
ure in  the  wheeled  chair. 

"My  only  reason  for  not  questioning  your  decision," 

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Vrooman  continued  imperturbably,  "was,  as  I  say,  the 
difficulty  of  finding  any  better  plan  to  offer,  in  the  ex- 
traordinary circumstances.  To  my  way  of  thinking,  only 
a  person  accustomed  to  large  means,  able  to  administer 
them  intelligently,  as  well  as  honestly,  would  be  of  any 
service  to  such  an  heir  as  Card.  It  is  very  easy  to  spend 
a  large  income,  your  reverence,  but  not  easy  as  a  matter 
of  fact  to  spend  it  so  as  to  produce  happiness.  I  have 
reason  to  know,  in  my  profession,  that  this  requires  some 
training. 

"A  clear  head  and  a  kind  heart,  a  cultured  mind,  a 
great  deal  of  patience,  almost  limitless  tact,  and  a  real 
devotion  to  his  interests  would  be  necessary,  into  the 
bargain.  I  had  thought  of  all  this  and  then  stopped,  be- 
cause I  had  very  stupidly  failed  to  take  the  next  step 
and  see  that  what  was  wanted  here  was  not  a  man  but 
a  woman." 

The  priest  drew  a  long  breath  and  again  cast  a  troubled 
look  at  Card,  who  sat  like  a  statue  in  his  wheeled  chair, 
only  his  eyes  traveling  slowly  from  one  man's  face  to  the 
other's. 

"I  do  not  know,  father,"  said  the  lawyer  carefully, 
"how  much  you  know  of  the  sex  that  in  the  end  decides 
the  fate  of  this  queer  little  world  of  ours.  But  I  sup- 
pose you  to  be  far  from  ignorant  of  their  hearts,  at  any 
rate,  and  so  you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  if 
a  woman  could  be  found  capable  of  helping  your  pupil 
to  understand  and  enjoy  his  inheritance,  she  would  not 
necessarily  be  an  exploiter  of  his  fortune  nor  careless  of 
his  best  interests.  Only  a  woman  could  make  it  both 
her  duty  and  her  pleasure  to  enrich  and  develop  the  years 
of  life  that  are  before  him,  in  the  natural  course ;  and  if 
there  is  any  woman  in  the  world  absolutely  capable  of 

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doing  this  honorably  and  exquisitely,  Father  Antoine,  I 
believe  her  to  be  the  lady  now  here  in  the  room  with 
us!" 

The  priest  dropped  his  eyes  obstinately  to  his  lap.  A 
silence  held  them. 

James  Vrooman,  like  many  good  and  effective  speak- 
ers, knew  also  how  to  cease  from  speaking.  He  knew 
that  the  priest's  mind  had  been  led  by  easy  stages,  from 
which  there  was  no  back-sliding,  to  where  he  wished  it. 
He  was  convinced  that  a  real  desire  for  his  charge's  best 
happiness  beat  under  the  shabby  black  vest;  something 
in  the  troubled  look  the  little  man  had  turned  on  his  pupil 
at  the  lawyer's  suggestion  of  doubt  as  to  Card's  happi- 
ness in  the  monastery,  had  affected  Vrooman  keenly  at 
the  time,  and  he  trusted  to  an  intuition  that  long  experi- 
ence had  proved  valuable. 

But  he  had  said  his  say.  He  doubted  if  it  were  wise 
to  mention  the  name  of  the  pale,  straight  girl  whose  eyes 
he  had  not  met ;  he  doubted  if  she  would  forgive  him,  in 
any  case;  he  doubted  if  he  should  ever  see  her  again. 
But  he  had  done  what  he  came  to  do :  he  had  given  the 
plucky  creature  her  chance.  Could  she  have  gone 
through  with  it  alone?  He  thought  not,  and  he  knew 
much  of  women,  James  Vrooman. 

But  no  man  living  can  know  so  much  of  them  that 
they  will  not  surprise  him  at  every  turn,  and  when  Eve- 
lyn spoke,  she  distinctly  surprised  even  James  Vrooman. 

"M.  le  cure,"  she  said  gently,  and  at  the  smooth 
French  the  priest  started  with  pleasure,  "M.  le  cure,  all 
that  I  have  thought  has  been  so  well  said  by  M.  Vrooman 
that  even  if  I  wished  to,  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to 
say.  But  I  do  not  wish  to,  M.  le  cure.  It  is  clear  to  me 
that  your  pupil  is  destined  very  surely  for  the  religious 

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life.    I  am  sure  you  will  guard  his  interests  for  his  best 
happiness." 

The  priest  stared  and  fingered  the  crucifix  on  his 
breast. 

"Mais,  tnadame — madame!"  he  stammered,  perplexed. 

Vrooman  looked  with  keen  interest  from  one  to  the 
other  of  them,  then  to  the  silent,  patient  man  in  the 
wheeled  chair.  Disposed  of,  all  his  life,  by  a  higher 
authority,  helpless  to  refuse  his  consent  to  any  course 
that  might  seem  wisest  to  the  two  men  who  had  directed 
his  simple  existence,  argument  was  no  part  of  his  equip- 
ment. How  closely  he  had  been  able  to  follow  Vroo- 
man's  discourse  the  lawyer  could  not  judge.  And  indeed 
it  was  not  Card's  point  of  view  that  most  concerned  him 
at  this  moment. 

The  woman  whose  mind  he  had  read  as  unerringly  as 
a  dog  follows  the  slot,  whose  problem  had  been  to  him 
as  demonstrable  as  a  proposition  out  of  Euclid,  had 
utterly  confounded  him  by  her  sudden  volte-face,  her 
incalculable  throw-back  to  inconsistent  sentiment.  She 
seemed  to  him  like  some  cool,  determined,  clear-sighted 
Diana,  who,  in  the  very  act  of  loosing  her  well-judged 
and  desperate  last  arrow,  should  suddenly  weaken  her 
wrist  deliberately  and  let  the  bow  slip.  Had  the  conven- 
tions proved  too  strong  for  her,  after  all?  The  tragic 
little  comedy  pricked  his  interest  amazingly. 

"Man  pere,"  said  Evelyn,  "it  is  my  wish  that  you 
should  know  how  it  is  with  me.  I  do  not  believe  that 
it  is  so  with  the  women  of  your  parish  here.  I  do  not 
believe  there  is  one  of  them  who  is  not  more  free  than 
I " 

She  paused  abruptly,  then  rose  with  a  sudden  sweep 
from  her  chair  and  faced  Vrooman  defiantly. 

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"Oh,  what  is  the  use  ?"  she  cried  in  English.  "It's  not 
worth  the  trouble  of  explaining!  Of  course  he  will 
wonder  why,  if  I  am  so  hungry  for  independence,  I  don't 
go  out,  as  they  say,  and  earn  my  living !  It  all  sounds  so 
simple — it's  done  every  day  in  books.  You  know,  Mr. 
Vrooman,  you  know  what  that  amounts  to,  brought  up 
as  I've  been!  What  could  I  do?  I  can  speak  French, 
yes,  but  well  enough  to  teach  it?  No.  And  who  would 
take  an  American  governess?  Even  supposing  I  were 
like  my  father's  sister,  and  all  her  family,  who  are  proud 
of  that  sort  of  thing,  could  I  teach  in  a  school?  Of 
course  not:  I'm  not  half  educated  for  it.  Could  I  be  a 
'social  secretary/  for  money?  You  know  perfectly  well 
that  from  my  family's  point  of  view  I  might  as  well  go 
into  a  shop  directly.  And  I  would — I  would  do  that, 
and  sell  antiques  for  Marie  Fitch,  if  she'd  take  me,  but, 
Mr.  Vrooman,  she  wouldn't  keep  me  a  week :  I  couldn't 
do  it.  It  isn't  only  that  I've  no  business  training — I 
haven't  the  gift  for  it  any  more  than  poor  papa  had. 
Celestine  Varnham  sells  her  cream  and  eggs  and  broilers 
all  over  Westchester  county  and  even  Nelly  Schermer 
says  nothing  to  that — now :  why  ?  Because  Celestine 
has  made  a  big  success  of  it.  I  could  no  more  do  it 
than  I  could  fly.  I  can  arrange  a  house  charmingly; 
everybody  says  so.  But  could  I  do  other  people's  houses 
and  make  a  fortune  by  it,  as  Marie  Fitch  has  done? 
Never.  I  can't  write  or  paint  or  act.  I  can't  run  big 
public  movements  like  Mrs.  Fettauer.  What  can  I  do? 
What  was  I  brought  up  to  do?" 

Her  cheeks  reddened  with  her  thick,  stifling  heartbeats. 
Martin  Luther,  nailing  up  his  profession  for  the  world 
to  read,  was  no  more  defiant,  made  no  bitterer  arraign- 
ment of  the  powers  that  be,  than  this  desperate  girl. 

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Vrooman  felt  the  angry  emotion  that  tingled  out  from 
her  as  one  feels  the  electric  waves  that  beat  out  of  some 
great  actress's  brain:  it  was  like  a  crucial  scene  on  the 
stage. 

"I  can  play  bridge,"  she  noted  hotly,  on  the  shapely 
fingers  of  her  left  hand,  "but  not  well  enough,  unfor- 
tunately, to  buy  gloves  from  it.  I  can  play  golf,  but 
not  well  enough  to  teach  it.  I  can  read  aloud  well  and 
write  notes  and  shop  for  people,  and  I  can  keep  a  house 
running — if  there  are  servants  enough,"  she  added  bit- 
terly. 

"Why,  I  can't  even  sew  well,"  she  cried.  "I've  always 
had  things  given  me,  and  somebody's  maid  or  a  little 
dressmaker  altered  them." 

She  turned  a  scornful  smile  on  him. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  run  a  dressmaking  establishment," 
she  said,  "if  you  have  a  peeress's  title.  It's  very  chic. 
But  what  would  they  have  said  if  mamma  had  done  it? 
And  she  could  have — she  had  a  perfect  genius  for  it. 
They  wouldn't  have  allowed  it  for  a  moment." 

Her  voice  dropped  to  a  lower  key  and  she  looked  for 
a  deprecating  moment  less  the  rebellious  daughter  of  a 
social  system  that  crushed  even  while  it  supported  her. 

"After  all,  Mr.  Vrooman,"  she  said,  "I  owe  them 
something.  They  have  fed  and  clothed  me  for  so  many 
years  ...  to  exasperate  and  humiliate  them  all  by  do- 
ing something  they  would  loathe  ...  to  almost  force 
them  to  pension  me  .  .  .  and,  you  see,  they  always,  from 
their  point  of  view,  provide  something.  There  is  Cousin 
Georgianna,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  he  said  briefly,  "I  know." 

How  she  tried  to  "play  fair,"  the  honest  creature! 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  drearily  now,  for  she  was 

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I  had  proposed — it — it  was  perhaps  a  mad   idea " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Pere  Antoine,  lifting  his 
hand  deferentially  and  rising  to  face  her.  His  English 
was  precise  and  slightly  accented. 

"I  am  not  shocked,  Miss — Miss " 

The  lawyer  frowned  slightly,  but  Evelyn  did  not  hesi- 
tate. 

"My  name  is  Evelyn  Jaffray,"  she  said. 

"Miss  Jaffray,"  the  priest  continued.  "I  do  not  think 
it  was  in  the  least  a  mad  idea.  No  one  could  hear  you 
speak  as  you  have  been  speaking  just  now,  Miss  Jaffray, 
and  not  know  that  you  are  a  very  honorable  lady.  Card 
is  a  good  man — a  very  good  man.  I  think  that  your 
plan  was  a  very  kind  one.  I  would  not  for  a  hundred 
pearl  necklaces  be  a  party  to  making  a  monk  of  a  man 
who  has  no  vocation  for  it.  I  thought  I  knew  Card — 
each  thought  in  his  heart.  But  it  seems  that  I  did  not. 
Perhaps  one  never  does." 

He  shifted  into  French. 

"Speak,  mon  His,"  he  said  kindly,  "thou  wishest  very 
much  that  this  lady  should  marry  thee?" 

Card's  deep  chest  heaved;  he  shook  his  head  with  a 
simple  gesture  so  eloquent  of  all  he  could  not  express 
that  they  were  all  three  inexpressibly  touched. 

"Oh,  my  father!"  he  said  in  a  husky  whisper  (it  was 
as  if  he  had  talked  steadily  with  them  and  were  utterly 
exhausted  with  pleading).  "Oh,  my  father,  how  many 
years  is  it  that  I  sit  here  and  think  .  .  .  and  think  .  .  . 
and  wish  .  .  .  my  God !"  He  burst  out :  "To  think  that 
it  is  only  that  I  am  so  large  and  strong!  To  think  that 
except  for  that  I  might  have  seen  the  sea !" 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  but  his  shoulders 
were  level  as  an  iron  bar. 

86 


"I  think,"  said  James  Vrooman,  clearing  his  throat, 
"you  are  doing  something  you  will  regret,  Miss  Jaffray. 
Your  first  impulse  at  least  did  credit  to  your  brain; 
your  last,  you  must  feel,  is  likely  to  do  little  to  your 
heart." 

"My  heart!"  she  repeated,  with  an  edged  voice  and 
a  look  that  pierced  him. 

"Surely.  Your  heart,"  he  said  composedly.  "Even  in 
the  open  market,  hearts  may  count.  And  I  know  that 
yours  is  touched  by  the  extraordinary  fate  of  this  man 
here.  I  believe  it  to  be,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  just  because 
your  heart  was  touched  that  you  weakened  in  your  bar- 
gain. You  probably  preferred  to  feel  nothing!" 

Under  this  acute  thrust  from  a  wily  hand  she  stag- 
gered a  little  and  bit  her  lip  irresolutely. 

"And  if  I  did,"  she  began,  but  the  little  priest  held 
out  his  hand  beseechingly  toward  her. 

"Ah,  madame,"  he  said,  slipping  unconsciously  into  his 
native  tongue,  "and  whose  heart  would  not  be  touched 
at  the  life  of  that  poor  fellow  there!  It  seems  to  me 
that  God  sends  you — though  I  can  well  believe  that 
you  did  not  know  it,"  he  added  shrewdly. 

"And  I  must  tell  you  one  thing  more,  madame:  not 
through  me  shall  any  man  be  forced  to  the  life  of  a  monk 
who  longs  for  other  things — not  through  me!  I  have 
seen  too  well  what  that  does. 

"Why,  see — in  my  family,  over  there,  the  second  son 
is  always  for  the  Church.  I  was  the  third.  My  poor 
brother,"  he  crossed  himself  swiftly,  "had  no  love  for 
it  and  only  that  my  good  father  was  so  obstinate  .  .  . 
ah,  well,  it  is  all  so  long  ago !  They  begged  and  threat- 
ened and  sulked,  until  he  was  persuaded,  and  took  his 
vows  and — and  ...  he  died,  God  be  praised,  after  he 

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I  had  proposed — it — it  was  perhaps  a  mad  idea " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Pere  Antoine,  lifting  his 
hand  deferentially  and  rising  to  face  her.  His  English 
was  precise  and  slightly  accented. 

"I  am  not  shocked,  Miss — Miss " 

The  lawyer  frowned  slightly,  but  Evelyn  did  not  hesi- 
tate. 

"My  name  is  Evelyn  Jaffray,"  she  said. 

"Miss  Jaffray,"  the  priest  continued.  "I  do  not  think 
it  was  in  the  least  a  mad  idea.  No  one  could  hear  you 
speak  as  you  have  been  speaking  just  now,  Miss  Jaffray, 
and  not  know  that  you  are  a  very  honorable  lady.  Card 
is  a  good  man — a  very  good  man.  I  think  that  your 
plan  was  a  very  kind  one.  I  would  not  for  a  hundred 
pearl  necklaces  be  a  party  to  making  a  monk  of  a  man 
who  has  no  vocation  for  it.  I  thought  I  knew  Card — 
each  thought  in  his  heart.  But  it  seems  that  I  did  not. 
Perhaps  one  never  does." 

He  shifted  into  French. 

"Speak,  mon  fits,"  he  said  kindly,  "thou  wishest  very 
much  that  this  lady  should  marry  thee?" 

Card's  deep  chest  heaved;  he  shook  his  head  with  a 
simple  gesture  so  eloquent  of  all  he  could  not  express 
that  they  were  all  three  inexpressibly  touched. 

"Oh,  my  father!"  he  said  in  a  husky  whisper  (it  was 
as  if  he  had  talked  steadily  with  them  and  were  utterly 
exhausted  with  pleading).  "Oh,  my  father,  how  many 
years  is  it  that  I  sit  here  and  think  .  .  .  and  think  .  .  . 
and  wish  .  .  .  my  God !"  He  burst  out :  "To  think  that 
it  is  only  that  I  am  so  large  and  strong!  To  think  that 
except  for  that  I  might  have  seen  the  sea !" 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  but  his  shoulders 
were  level  as  an  iron  bar. 

86 


"I  think,"  said  James  Vrooman,  clearing  his  throat, 
"you  are  doing  something  you  will  regret,  Miss  Jaffray. 
Your  first  impulse  at  least  did  credit  to  your  brain; 
your  last,  you  must  feel,  is  likely  to  do  little  to  your 
heart." 

"My  heart!"  she  repeated,  with  an  edged  voice  and 
a  look  that  pierced  him. 

"Surely.  Your  heart,"  he  said  composedly.  "Even  in 
the  open  market,  hearts  may  count.  And  I  know  that 
yours  is  touched  by  the  extraordinary  fate  of  this  man 
here.  I  believe  it  to  be,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  just  because 
your  heart  was  touched  that  you  weakened  in  your  bar- 
gain. You  probably  preferred  to  feel  nothing!" 

Under  this  acute  thrust  from  a  wily  hand  she  stag- 
gered a  little  and  bit  her  lip  irresolutely. 

"And  if  I  did,"  she  began,  but  the  little  priest  held 
out  his  hand  beseechingly  toward  her. 

"Ah,  madame,"  he  said,  slipping  unconsciously  into  his 
native  tongue,  "and  whose  heart  would  not  be  touched 
at  the  life  of  that  poor  fellow  there!  It  seems  to  me 
that  God  sends  you — though  I  can  well  believe  that 
you  did  not  know  it,"  he  added  shrewdly. 

"And  I  must  tell  you  one  thing  more,  madame:  not 
through  me  shall  any  man  be  forced  to  the  life  of  a  monk 
who  longs  for  other  things — not  through  me!  I  have 
seen  too  well  what  that  does. 

"Why,  see — in  my  family,  over  there,  the  second  son 
is  always  for  the  Church.  I  was  the  third.  My  poor 
brother,"  he  crossed  himself  swiftly,  "had  no  love  for 
it  and  only  that  my  good  father  was  so  obstinate  .  .  . 
ah,  well,  it  is  all  so  long  ago !  They  begged  and  threat- 
ened and  sulked,  until  he  was  persuaded,  and  took  his 
vows  and — and  ...  he  died,  God  be  praised,  after  he 

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broke  them,  and  he  suffered  greatly  besides.  And  on 
his  deathbed  he  begged  me  to  make  up  to  God  for  him, 
and  I  did.  I  had  not  felt  drawn  to  the  priesthood  be- 
fore. But  it  brought  much  peace  to  my  family,  and, 
afterward,  to  me,"  he  said  quietly.  "But  I  would  not 
for  the  world — for  worlds  of  worlds  .  .  .  ah,  not 
through  me!  Not  through  me!"  he  cried  and  clenched 
his  fists. 

To  Evelyn's  troubled  mind  this  sad  little  history  car- 
ried, somehow,  a  heavy  weight.  She  put  out  her  hand 
and  clasped  the  little  priest's;  his  own  was  cold  and 
shook  in  hers. 

"I — I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  mon  ptre"  she  said 
gently.  "And  I  admit  that  my  change  of  mind  was  un- 
reasonable. I  suppose  you  could  marry  us — Mr.  Card 
and  me?  And  when?" 

And  again  James  Vrooman  gasped. 


VIII 

EVELYN  never  quite  clearly  remembered  their 
journey  back  to  the  Palmer  camp.  When  her 
mind,  as  it  sometimes  did,  returned  to  musing  on 
that  afternoon,  she  was  able  to  construct  only  a  series  of 
pictures,  disconnected,  widely  spaced  in  her  memory. 
She  saw  herself  offering  her  hand  gravely  to  Card,  she 
felt  the  pain  of  his  mighty,  unconsciously  cruel  grasp,  the 
pathos  of  his  deep,  dog-like  eyes,  resting  so  trustfully  in 
hers.  She  saw  a  woman,  exhausted  beyond  any  thought 
or  feeling,  resting  in  a  hard  wooden  chair,  staring  ab- 
sently through  a  small  window  at  two  men  walking  up 
and  down  the  clearing  in  front  of  the  cabin.  One  smoked 
a  thick  cigar,  and  talked  steadily,  quietly,  practically. 
The  other  nursed  a  stumpy  black  pipe  and  listened  criti- 
cally, nodding  at  intervals,  occasionally  interposing  some 
gestured  objection  which  the  lawyer  would  meet  with 
a  wave  of  his  cigar  or  a  flutter  of  the  balanced  pince- 
nez.  She  knew  that  they  were  discussing  the  details 
of  her  immediate  future — hers  and  that  of  the  man  who 
sat  sunk  in  his  thoughts,  his  face  turned  from  her.  As 
before,  there  was  nothing  embarrassing  in  the  silence : 
it  was  like  being  in  the  room  with  an  absorbed  child 
or  a  dog  lost  in  its  inexplicable  reverie. 

She  saw  the  woman  gratefully  drinking  a  mug  of 
steaming  black  coffee;  she  heard  her  little  gasp  of  re- 
lief at  the  sight  of  a  saddled  mule,  tethered  to  a  dead 

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spruce  stump.  It  had  been  Vrooman  who  had  lifted 
that  steaming  mug  to  her  lips;  Vrooman  who  had  led 
her  to  the  thin,  drab  beast  and  helped  her  to  mount. 

"I  remembered  hearing  you  tell  young  What's-his- 
name  that  your  skirt  buttoned  back  and  that  you  wore 
riding-breeches  under  it,"  he  said  quietly.  "We  go  out 
by  this  back  trail — it's  a  bit  longer,  but  Card's  father 
made  it  wider,  and  used  this  creature  as  a  pack-mule 
often.  It  comes  out  well  below  Greenville  and  we  can  go 
into  the  village  in  a  hack — I  ordered  one  to  meet  us  and 
wait." 

She  settled  herself  in  the  stirrups,  cross-saddle.  For 
the  first  time  tears  smarted  her  eyeballs. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vrooman,  why  have  you  been  so  kind  to 
me?"  she  murmured. 

"I  liked  your  pluck,"  he  said  simply.  "From  the  be- 
ginning," he  added,  with  significance. 

Now  came  another  picture.  A  stocky,  well-built  man 
in  khaki  knickerbockers  walking  steadily  along  a  broad 
trail,  a  tired  woman,  nodding  in  her  saddle,  following 
him,  not  to  press  his  pace.  What  he  thought,  she  never 
knew ;  her  own  mind  was  utterly  empty.  Between  the 
mule's  drooping  ears  her  eyes  were  set,  and  never  shifted 
to  right  or  left.  The  shambling,  patient  beast  picked 
its  way  automatically  over  mossy  stones  and  rotting 
stumps;  occasionally  she  dismounted  and  led  it  across  a 
chuckling  stream,  she  on  a  log  bridge,  the  animal  fording 
the  shallow  water.  Vrooman  did  not  offer  to  help  her 
and  seemed  to  know  instinctively  that  a  certain  amount 
of  responsibility  kept  her  mind  and  muscles  alike  from 
stiffening.  She  studied  the  green  tips  of  the  baby  trees, 
feathery  and  odorous,  the  curled  tails  of  the  cinnamon- 
red  squirrels  that  came  out  to  watch  the  strange  little 

90 


procession,  the  faintly  tinged  berries  of  the  witch-hopple 
clusters  that  brushed  her  boot-tips.  Soon  it  would  be 
dark,  but  so  great  was  her  trust  in  the  steady,  plodding 
figure  before  her  that  she  would  have  followed  it  into 
the  heart  of  a  black  forest:  he  would  take  care. 

Occasionally  he  drew  her  attention  to  a  tiny,  specked 
butterfly;  showed  her  once  a  stupid  fluffy  owl,  lost  in 
the  waning  light  and  nearly  floundering  into  them ; 
pointed  with  his  birch  staff  to  a  hedgehog  fast  asleep 
in  a  hollow  stump. 

Now  the  woman  had  buttoned  forward  the  flap  of  her 
trim  sporting  skirt  and  was  lifting  herself  awkwardly 
into  a  dusty  village  hack.  On  the  step  she  paused. 

"My  tennis  racket!"  she  said  wearily.  "And  my  em- 
broidery! Will  that  boy  wait  for  me,  with  his  boat, 
do  you  think?" 

"The  padre  will  go  back  that  way,"  he  assured  her. 
"He'll  take  the  things." 

In  the  jolting,  noisy  carriage  he  changed  his  tactics 
and  talked  easily  of  this  and  that.  His  acquaintance 
with  the  Palmers,  his  regrettable  inability  to  join  them 
on  the  yacht,  owing  to  an  uncertain  stomach  at  sea, 
her  own  pleasure  in  travel  (which  would  really  be  quite 
easily  arranged,  as  a  matter  of  fact) — little  by  little 
they  were  talking  of  the  future. 

By  the  time  they  were  in  the  train  it  was  almost  dusk. 

"You  rowed  around  the  long  way,  I  think,  by  the 
Dysharts'?"  he  said.  "We'd  better  go  straight  across 
from  the  club  landing,  perhaps.  They  might  be  anxious. 
I  thought  that  you  might  rest  to-morrow,  and  then,  if 
you  cared  to,  we  could  leave,  together,  the  next  morning  ? 
The  ceremony  can't  be  in  the  padre's  little  church,  of 
course;  it's  a  great  disappointment  to  him.  But  I  re- 

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called  the  various  weddings  I  have  attended  when  one  of 
the  contracting  parties  was  not  a  Catholic,  in  which  case 
there  is,  I  believe,  no  nuptial  mass  when  the  ceremony 
has  been  performed  in  a  private  house.  The  Gelatly 
wedding,  for  instance :  if  I  remember,  an  archbishop  con- 
ducted that  affair  in  the  Gelatly  drawing-room.  I  can 
see  the  altar  they  improvised  now.  Morgan  sent  them 
the  most  wonderful  jewel-crusted  stole  imaginable  and 
Mrs.  Gelatly  had  the  altar  draped  with  it — one  of  the 
candles  spilled  on  it,  by  the  way,  and  Madame  la 
Duchesse  threw  a  candlestick  at  the  footman." 

Evelyn  had  laughed. 

"Poor  Cissie!"  she  said  and  laughed  again.  "Wasn't 
that  just  like  her!" 

Now  the  woman  in  the  picture  was  on  the  Palmers' 
landing-stage. 

"Miss  Jaffray  is  pretty  well  done  up,"  the  lawyer's 
pleasant,  easy  voice  was  explaining.  "I  was  lucky  enough 
to  meet  her,  as  I  came  back  from  my  tramp,  and  help 
her  home.  I  think  she  should  go  straight  to  bed  and 
have  one  of  those  enticing  meals  you  send  people  on 
trays.  She  walked  much  too  far,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
And  I  shall  get  no  chess." 

Everyone  was  very  kind  to  the  woman  in  the  last  pic- 
ture (who  must  have  been  very  white)  and  her  hostess's 
maid  drew  her  a  scalding  hot  bath  that  smelled  of  ver- 
veine.  She  slept  without  a  shadow  of  a  dream. 

They  all  agreed  afterward  that  they  had  never  seen 
Miss  Jaffray  so  charming  as  on  the  last  day  of  her  stay. 
True,  there  were  violet  circles  under  her  eyes,  and  she 
looked  a  little  pale,  after  her  overlong  tramp,  but  each 
member  of  the  party  drifted,  somehow,  at  one  time  or 
another,  into  one  of  those  little,  intimate  conversations 

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with  her  that  made  memory  of  the  occasion  such  a  pleas- 
ant thing.  She  was  so  comprehending,  Miss  Jaffray, 
so  sympathetic. 

As  Mr.  Vrooman  pushed  the  canoe  out  into  the  opal 
of  the  sunset  water  and  settled  into  his  seat  high  on 
the  polished  stern,  looking  down  at  her,  relaxed  on  the 
orange  cushions,  her  dark  head  clear  against  the  pink 
and  violet  of  the  most  vividly  beautiful  sky  they  had  yet 
seen,  Henry  Palmer  jerked  his  cigar  thoughtfully  toward 
the  couple. 

"They'd  hit  it  off  pretty  well,  seems  to  me,"  he  said. 
"It's  a  darn  shame  about  that  wife  of  his." 

"Oh,  well,  they  may,  yet,"  his  wife  replied.  "I  hear 
she's  getting  worse  every  day.  She'd  be  perfect  for 
him,  wouldn't  she?" 

But  the  sophomore  godson  grunted  disgustedly. 

"That  old  man?"  he  muttered. 

They  laughed  good-naturedly  at  him. 

"Got  you,  too,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Bristow.  "I  did  so 
hope  she  could  have  come  to  us  for  August,"  his  wife 
began  plaintively.  "Of  course  it  would  be  dull,  to 
what  she's  accustomed  to,  but  still  we  could  motor  over 
to  Stockbridge  so  easily,  and  so  many  of  her  friends 
are  there.  She  could  have  had  the  runabout  for  herself." 

"I  just  asked  her,  on  the  chance,"  said  Mrs.  LaValle, 
"to  come  to  Egypt  with  us  this  winter.  We're  going 
to  take  three  months  this  year.  Her  cousin's  death 
breaks  up  everything,  she  told  me,  and  I  knew  she'd  be 
more  free.  But  she  couldn't,  she  said,  though  she'd  have 
loved  to.  I  suppose  the  rest  of  the  family  are  determined 
to  have  her,  and  you  can't  blame  them." 

"Indeed  you  can't:  I  had  to  pin  her  down  on  the  spot, 
to  get  her  this  time,"  said  their  hostess  warmly.  "I 

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don't  think  either  of  the  Schermer  ladies  was  any  too 
pleased.  But  they  had  to  admit  the  change  would  do 
her  good." 

Did  Fate,  old  juggler  that  she  is,  laugh? 

If  she  did,  the  two  in  the  canoe,  mid-lake,  now, 
thought  it  only  the  waves  chuckling  at  the  bow. 

"I  have  telegraphed  for  money,"  said  Vrooman  quietly, 
"and  Father  Antoine  and  I  think  we  can  manage  to  get 
him  through  the  woods.  Then  I  thought  that  instead 
of  driving,  as  we  did,  to  Greenville,  we  might  go  to  the 
next  station,  about  seven  miles  up  the  road.  It's  even 
smaller — Babley's  Mills  is  the  name.  You  can  go  from 
there  back  to  Malone,  and  I've  ordered  a  private  car 
attached  to  the  express  there.  I  suppose  you'll  go 
straight  to  New  York?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  New  York.  I  had  thought  of 
going  on  to  Montreal." 

"Montreal?" 

He  looked  a  little  surprised,  but  considered  a  moment. 

"I  see,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "yes,  I  begin  to  see. 
And  then?" 

"After  that  ...  I  am  not  sure,"  she  told  him,  but 
he  did  not  repress  a  slight  smile. 

"You  may  not  be  sure,  but  you  have  rather  an  idea, 
perhaps?"  he  suggested.  "My  dear  young  lady,  you're 
quite  wonderful!  I'll  venture  you  have  every  hour  of 
to-morrow  planned  out — confess,  haven't  you?" 

"Of  course,"  she  answered  simply,  "why  not?" 

And  then  as  a  little  shade  came  over  his  face  her  so- 
cial antennae,  delicate  as  a  butterfly's,  brushed  the  dif- 
ficulty away. 

"You  see,  all  the  hard  part  you  have  done  for  me," 

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she  added,  meeting  his  whimsical  eyes.  "I  could  never 
have  got  through  yesterday  without  you,  Mr.  Vrooman. 
You  know  it." 

He  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  knew  it:  he  would 
have  backed  her,  in  the  African  desert,  with  those  pearls 
and  that  wheeled  chair,  to  come  out  of  it  triumphantly. 
But  he  liked  to  hear  her  say  it. 

They  left  together  in  the  morning,  ostensibly  for  New 
York.  When  the  little  envelope  marked  "fees"  had  been 
emptied,  it  was  literally  no  emptier  than  her  purse. 

Two  of  the  Palmers'  guides  left  them  and  their  slight 
luggage  on  the  landing,  and  swung  off  to  their  boats. 
The  driver  of  the  club  carry-all  waved  a  cordial  good-by 
to  them  on  the  station  platform,  half  an  hour  later,  and 
could  have  taken  his  oath  that  he  saw  them  get  into  the 
express.  But  they  were  safe  in  the  wheezy  little  ac- 
commodation train  when  the  drawing-room  cars  passed 
them,  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"Would  you  have  ordered  a  special  car?"  he  asked 
curiously. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered,  a  little  surprised.  "Surely 
it  is  the  only  practical  thing?" 

"I  believe,  if  that  seat  affair  hadn't  been  made  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  that  you  would  have  invented  it!"  he 
burst  out. 

"I  did  think  of  it,"  she  admitted. 

For  at  the  last  moment  the  priest  had  remembered 
the  clumsy  wooden  seat,  like  a  child's  saddle  for  a  sea- 
side donkey,  that  the  elder  Card  had  made,  a  quarter  of 
a  century  before,  to  transport  the  heavy,  grumbling  half- 
breed  he  had  prevailed  upon  to  come  and  nurse  his  sick 
boy.  It  had  lain,  dusty  and  forgotten,  in  the  priest's 
attic,  with  a  vague  thought  of  some  similar  need  in  fu- 

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ture  catastrophe,  and  now  it  was  ready,  lashed  to  the 
drab  mule,  even  to  the  clumsy  but  effective  foot-rest  that 
the  father  had  slung  to  it,  to  carry  that  very  boy — a 
man,  now — into  the  world  he  had  never  dared  to 
dream  of. 

Pere  Antoine  had  started  early  with  the  mule  and 
two  others,  for  Evelyn  and  the  lawyer,  by  the  long  trail ; 
she  and  Vrooman  walked  the  shorter  way  that  she  had 
taken  two  days  before.  The  exercise  she  was  eager 
for :  it  suited  her  mood. 

"I  will  write  Nelly  and  Cousin  Vandy,"  she  said 
abruptly,  as  they  swung  along,  "perhaps  in  a  fortnight. 
I  sent  off  a  note  to  her  last  night  saying  I  had  left  for 
a  week  or  so  with  some  friends  I  found  here.  They'll 
tell  the  others.  Are  you  sure  you  want  to  bother  about 
it,  Mr.  Vrooman?  I  hate  to  bore  you " 

"Bore  me?"  he  interrupted.  "But  it  will  amuse  me 
enormously,  my  dear  child!  It  won't  be  the  first  tilt 
I've  had  with  Nelly  Schermer,  I  assure  you." 

He  pictured  himself  telling  a  little,  not  too  much  .  .  . 
stimulating  their  curiosity,  eluding  details,  forcing  them 
to  trust  to  his  placid  sponsoring  of  this  unexpected  but 
impeccable  marriage. 

"I  shan't  spoil  it,  you  may  depend,"  he  assured  her. 
"You  shall  have  a  clear  field  when  you  appear  .  .  .  you 
will  appear?"  he  added  a  little  anxiously.  "You  won't 
slip  away  for  good?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  appear,"  she  answered,  with  a  curious 
little  smile,  "I  shall  appear,  Mr.  Vrooman." 

"By  God,  but  I  believe  you !"  he  cried. 

Pere  Antoine  stood  in  the  cabin  door  awaiting  them. 
Card,  to  all  appearances,  had  not  moved  since  they  left 
him.  A  faded  silk  handkerchief  was  knotted  about  the 

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flannel  collar  of  his  shirt;  perhaps  his  beard  had  beea 
roughly  trimmed — it  did  not  seem  quite  so  formidable, 
nor  the  mustache  quite  so  heavy;  a  sort  of  rough  pea- 
jacket  and  an  old-fashioned  "fore-and-aft"  cloth  cap  lay 
on  one  of  the  chairs. 

Vrooman  felt  a  momentary  qualm  at  the  lack  of  ef- 
fort to  please  this  already  disillusioned  bride,  but  a 
quick  glance  at  her  showed  him  that  he  had  underesti- 
mated her  courage  and  good  sense. 

"You  know,  all  this  can  be  very  easily  remedied  .  .  .** 
he  had  begun,  with  a  vague  gesture,  but  she  had  checked 
him. 

"But,  of  course,"  she  had  said  carelessly,  "what  dif- 
ference does  it  make?" 

He  had  felt  ashamed,  remembering  how  infinitely  more 
conventional  is  his  sex  than  hers,  how  essentially  more 
susceptible  to  detail.  Once  she  had  adjusted  her  mind 
to  the  great  step,  what  difference  to  her — the  unshaven 
man,  the  faded  flannel  collar,  the  pathetic  clumsy  pea- 
jacket? 

The  little  priest  hovered  nervously  about,  giving  whis- 
pered directions  to  his  assistant,  the  lad  who  was  Card's 
only  friend — if  so  infrequent  a  visitor  could  merit  the 
title — in  the  world,  save  himself.  Vrooman  realized  that 
he  and  Pere  Antoine  were  clearly  the  most  embarrassed 
and  perturbed  persons  in  the  room.  This  straight,  sup- 
ple girl,  groomed  to  the  perfection  of  her  class,  this 
gaunt,  silent  hermit,  unconscious  of  the  great  gulf  be- 
tween them,  sat  quietly,  as  self-possessed  as  prince  and 
princess,  in  their  chairs.  And  suddenly  James  Vrooman 
realized  that  at  the  bottom  of  his  embarrassment  lurked 
that  disturbing  element  of  sex,  that  vague  troubling  of 
the  flesh  and  spirit  impossible  not  to  associate  with  the 

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occasion  before  them.  Undoubtedly,  after  his  fashion, 
the  priest  thought  of  that,  too:  undoubtedly,  his  respon- 
sibility weighed  a  little  upon  him.  He  knew  too  much 
of  the  world,  as  must  every  priest  of  his  church,  not 
to  tremble  a  little  for  their  life  together,  not  to  see  the 
thorns  that  grew  so  close  about  the  rose  of  their  fu- 
ture— so  closely  bound  they  would  be,  such  miles  apart. 

And  yet  the  two  whom  all  this  most  concerned  were 
most  untroubled.  And  while  the  priest  robed  himself 
in  his  shabby  soutane,  pulled  the  clean,  coarse  cotta  with 
trembling  hands  over  his  shoulders,  ordered  the  holy 
water  and  the  candles  to  suit  him  on  the  scrubbed  pine 
table,  the  boy  meanwhile  lost  in  the  absorption  of  the 
coming  rite,  a  rapt  and  reverent  server  at  his  elbow, 
Vrooman  thought  the  situation  through,  painfully,  care- 
fully, and  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  his  intuition 
might  have  glimpsed,  another  time :  they  were  un- 
troubled, these  two,  because,  simply,  there  was  nothing 
to  trouble  them !  Evelyn,  cool-blooded,  like  most  women 
of  her  class  and  nation,  clear-eyed  and  knowing  well 
what  she  relinquished  in  this,  the  bargain  of  her  life, 
had  envisaged  the  situation,  braced  herself  for  its  re- 
sponsibilities, and  brought  as  her  share  in  the  transaction 
an  honorable  and  carefully  devoted  companion  to  this 
helpless  man.  She  offered  nothing  less— and  nothing 
more.  Therefore,  nothing  beyond  the  bargain  concerned 
her.  The  relation  which  she  had  refused,  in  the  case  of 
Colonel  Perrett,  had  not  so  much  as  tinged  her  thoughts, 
evidently,  in  the  case  of  the  man  to  whom  she  stood 
prepared  to  give  his  just  due,  as  she  understood  it.  No 
sentimentalism,  no  mawkish  overestimation  of  her  liabili- 
ties distorted  her  view  of  the  situation. 

And  he,  this  patient,  grateful  giant,  whose  blue  eyes 

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followed  her  least  movement  like  a  dog's,  what  was  she 
to  him?  A  goddess  from  the  machine,  obviously,  a 
heaven-sent  means  of  setting  his  feet  into  the  ways  of 
the  great  world  outside.  She  was  his  link  with  life,  his 
savior  from  the  dim,  blank  days  that  stretched  from  his 
cabin  to  his  grave,  beside  his  father's,  under  the  bowlder. 
By  breeding,  by  necessity,  by  the  careful  training  of  the 
priest,  he  had,  perforce,  relinquished  the  world  of  women 
in  one  submissive  gesture,  as  a  child  wipes  some  ill- 
conceived,  scarce  apprehended  figure  from  a  slate  al- 
most before  he  has  sketched  it  there.  And  Vrooman 
perceived  that  if  to  know  women  one  must  love  them, 
it  is  equally  true  that  to  love  them  one  must  know  them. 
In  order  to  worship  or  to  renounce,  one  must  study  either 
the  goddess  or  the  temptation. 

She,  Evelyn,  had  felt  this  instinctively.  It  accorded 
perfectly  with  her  plans.  And  it  was  quite  possible, 
Vrooman  admitted  to  his  thoughts,  that  she  could  so  fill 
his  life  with  the  varied  material  of  that  life  his  pearls 
could  lay  before  him,  that  this  relation  of  theirs,  con- 
sidering her  temperament  and  his  training,  need  never 
change,  but  develop  into  the  quiet,  friendly  sunset  of 
what,  after  all,  are  the  best  and  most  successful  mar- 
riages. 

More  chance,  perhaps,  than  most  couples  have,  he 
thought  with  a  little  grimace,  with  no  disillusion,  no 
satiety,  no  preposterous  ideals  to  tumble  from! 

"I  wonder  if  he  will  never  be  more  talkative,"  the 
lawyer  thought,  and  then:  "Anyone  would  suppose  she 
thought  he  was  a  Frenchman:  does  she  never  intend  to 
speak  English  to  the  man?" 

With  his  usual  acuteness  he  had  hit  on  a  very  im- 
portant fact,  so  important  that  it  had  nearly  changed  the 

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history  of  that  morning.  For  when  in  reply  to  his  brief 
question, 

"Are  you  all  ready,  Card?  You  can't  think  of  any- 
thing else?"  the  man  so  soon  to  be  her  husband  had 
answered  bluntly, 

"No,  sir,  I  guess  there  ain't  nothing  morel"  Evelyn 
had  experienced  a  sudden  quick  revulsion  that  was  al- 
most a  physical  nausea. 

She  had  never  heard  him  speak  an  English  word. 

"I  can't  do  it — I  can't !"  she  cried  in  her  soul,  and  bit 
her  lip  till  the  salt  taste  of  her  own  blood  recalled  her. 
The  man  had  all  at  once  ceased  to  be  the  silent  French 
mystic  of  the  woods,  the  gigantic  child  with  his  touching 
eagerness  for  the  Alps,  that  had  softened  her  heart.  This 
creature  was  an  uncouth  backwoodsman,  with  the  pro- 
vincialisms of  his  class  and  district;  it  was  impossible, 
incredible!  Curiously  enough,  she  had  never,  in  all  her 
foresight,  thought  of  this,  the  inevitable  moment,  when 
he  should  speak,  as  of  course  he  must  sooner  or  later 
speak,  in  his  native  idiom — to  her  fastidious  ear  the 
most  trying  idiom  of  her  country.  Thus  it  was  that  the 
guides  spoke  in  the  Palmer  camp;  it  was  their  dialect, 
humorous  in  the  eyes  of  guests  and  hosts  alike.  And 
by  this  man  she  was  to  kneel,  to  him  she  was  to  promise 
.  .  .  she  shuddered  violently  and  parted  her  lips  to  speak. 
In  that  moment  she  regarded  with  horror  the  signed 
and  witnessed  will  lying  on  the  stone  mantel,  the  deed 
that  put  her  in  possession  of  her  private,  personal  in- 
come— let  them  be  thrown  into  the  cooking-stove!  She 
would  return  to  Cousin  Georgianna.  James  Vrooman 
would  understand:  what  did  the  priest  matter  to  her? 

She  parted  her  lips  to  speak  and  her  eyes  met  those 
patient  blue  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  child  whose  mother  holds 

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ajar  the  door  through  which  he  will  soon  see  the  won- 
ders he  dare  not  guess.  And  she  realized  in  a  flash  that 
she  had  given  her  word  and  that  if  she  ever  went  back 
from  it  she  could  never  again  know  self-respect. 

She  set  her  teeth,  gave  the  little  gasp  that  women 
give  when  they  enter  cold  water,  and  fell  into  line  like 
a  soldier  before  the  clean,  bare  table. 

But  it  was  not  a  table  now,  it  was  an  altar,  and  the 
man  who  stood  before  it  was  no  longer  a  man,  but  a 
priest  of  God,  about  to  administer  one  of  the  sacraments 
of  his  faith.  The  rough  boy  in  his  stiff  white  cotta  who 
watched  so  reverently  his  every  movement  was  not  the 
shy  lout  she  might  have  seen — nay,  she  had  seen !  Surely 
that  was  the  boy  who  had  rowed  her  across  the  lake 
two  days  before?  The  eyes  that  had  been  empty  then 
were  rapt  now,  focused  on  visions  she  could  not  follow. 
He  was  not  a  shockheaded  country  boy,  but  an  acolyte, 
discreet  and  aloof,  ordering  carefully  the  matters  of  the 
altar  of  his  faith. 

She  moved  beside  Card's  chair,  not  raising  her  eyes 
to  his.  Mindful  of  everything,  and  with  the  instinctive 
desire  of  one  of  her  breeding  to  do  easily  and  properly 
what  should  be  done  in  such  circumstances,  she  had  bor- 
rowed a  "Key  of  Heaven"  from  one  of  the  chamber- 
maids and  gathered  from  it  that  in  this  brief  service,  un- 
hallowed by  any  Mass,  the  contracting  parties  stood 
before  the  altar,  kneeling  only  for  the  final  blessing.  She 
had  supposed  that  Card  would  keep  his  chair  and  that 
she  would  stand  beside  him.  But  as  the  altar  boy,  at 
a  gesture  from  the  priest,  stepped  to  the  back  of  the  chair 
to  push  it  into  the  position  he  indicated,  Card  made  a 
motion  of  dissent  and  reached  for  two  tall,  leather- 
padded  crutches  attached  to  the  wall  near  him. 

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"You  will  not  be  tired?"  Father  Antoine  asked.  He 
seemed  to  come  down  from  heights  as  he  spoke,  and  his 
eyes,  severe  and  empty  of  human  friendship,  took  sud- 
denly the  warmth  and  solicitude  of  a  mother's  for  her 
only  son. 

"I  guess  I'll  stand  up,  if  she  does,"  said  Card. 

Evelyn  bit  her  lip.  His  actual  voice  seemed  rougher, 
coarser. 

"But  are  you  sure "  Vrooman  began  anxiously. 

Evelyn  knew  that  he  wanted  to  spare  her,  that  he  re- 
alized perfectly  the  strain.  The  blanket  that  masked  so 
kindly  those  withered  limbs  of  his — why  disturb  it  ?  Why 
drive  home  to  her  to  what  she  had  bound  herself  ? 

"Pray  don't  try,"  she  said  hastily.  "I — I  should  pre- 
fer  " 

"I  guess  I'd  ruther  stand  up,"  he  repeated  quietly,  but 
with  a  decision  that  left  no  room,  she  saw  instantly,  for 
discussion.  "I  d'  know's  I'd  want  t'do  anything  diff- 
runt  from  what  she  does." 

Evelyn's  eyes  slipped  unconsciously  to  Vrooman,  and 
he  raised  his  eyebrows  ever  so  slightly.  She  felt  her- 
self suddenly  opposed  to  him,  on  the  other  side  of  an 
impalpable,  instant  barrier. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  she  said  quickly  and  moved  nearer 
the  chair.  After  all,  as  well  now  as  later.  She  would 
not  flinch — her  father's  daughter  could  not  flinch — 
at  any  dwarfing,  shocking  change.  It  was  part  of  the 
price. 

But  he  needed  no  help.  He  fitted  the  crutches  to  his 
armpits,  first  one,  then  the  other,  and  swung  himself  free 
of  the  chair,  dexterously,  even  athletically.  Only  Vroo- 
man moved  instinctively  to  assist  him,  for  both  the  priest 
and  the  boy  knew,  evidently,  that  such  assistance  was 

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not  called  for.  Had  it  not  been  for  James  Vrooman  and 
those  faintly  raised  brows  of  his,  Evelyn  would  have 
gasped  aloud  and  turned  to  him ;  for  it  was  no  withered, 
dragging  cripple  swinging  from  the  tall  crutches,  but  a 
great,  powerful  man,  of  height  to  justify  those  broad 
shoulders,  that  towered  above  her.  There  was  strain, 
clearly,  for  his  feet,  though  they  rested  on  the  floor,  bore 
no  weight,  and  the  long  legs,  to  all  appearance  like  any 
other  man's,  swayed  slightly — they  were  quite  useless. 
Even  with  the  forward  lurch  of  the  clavicle  that  such 
unnaturally  placed  weight  makes  necessary,  the  stoop  of 
the  neck  that  marks  all  crutch-supported  men,  he  rose, 
broad  and  high,  far  above  her.  The  flat  heels  of  her 
walking-boots  accentuated  the  difference  even  more,  and 
though  she  was,  if  anything,  a  shade  above  the  average 
height,  she  felt  a  child  beside  him. 

The  cabin  became  all  at  once  very  still.  The  candles, 
pale  yellow  against  the  morning,  seemed  unreal,  ghostly. 
The  priest's  voice  rose;  a  murmur  of  Latin  words  filled 
the  room.  The  squirrels  chattered  angrily  outside  and 
a  puff  of  pine-scented  air  blew  across  her  hot  face.  Pere 
Antoine  stretched  out  his  arms — 

"This  is  the  holy  water,"  she  thought  vaguely.  "It  is 
happening  now — I  cannot  go  back." 

The  man  beside  her  swayed  a  little  and  reached  his 
hand  .  .  . 

Ah,  yes,  the  ring — it  must  be  blessed.  James  Vroo- 
man had  attended  to  it,  probably ;  she  was  sorry,  for  she 
would  rather  not  have  been  beholden  to  him  for  that. 
She  had  not  thought  of  a  ring — people  never  did.  Sup- 
pose it  should  be  too  small  ?  But  it  was,  instead,  a  trifle 
large.  How  big  his  fingers  were,  but  they  were  strong, 
slender,  well  shaped.  She  had  not  thought  to  object  to 

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their  contact ;  his  hands  had  been  as  cold  as  her  own,  and 
she  had  been  deeply  concerned  to  help  him  as  much  as 
possible,  while  he  hung  balanced  there  for  a  moment — 
she  had  a  sickening  fear  lest  he  should  fall,  and  who 
could  have  supported  that  great  bulk? 

A  little  chipmunk  ran  over  the  window-sill,  nibbling 
some  nut  or  crust;  attracted,  perhaps,  by  the  candles,  a 
slender,  gray-bodied  bird  with  slaty  wings  swayed  on  a 
tiny  spruce  twig  and  chirped  interrogatively. 

It  was  nearly  over,  now:  she  had  answered  to  her 
name,  he  to  his.  She  thought  in  a  flash  of  reminiscence 
of  the  last  wedding  where  she  had  acted  as  bridesmaid 
— it  had  been  in  Grace  Church.  She  saw  herself  in  a 
rose-budded  Gainsborough  hat  moving  slowly  up  the 
aisle,  and  remembered  how  her  partner,  a  red-haired  girl 
from  Cleveland,  had  failed  to  keep  step,  and  how  the 
checkered  light,  blue  and  maroon,  from  the  great  La 
Farge  window,  had  stained  her  dress  with  blobs  of  fruity 
color.  The  hatpin  in  her  trim  white  sport  hat — an  ame- 
thyst set  in  seed  pearls — had  been  the  bride's  gift  to  her 
maids:  amethyst  was  her  birth  stone,  and  the  girl  from 
Cleveland,  reveling  in  her  own  small  ruby,  had  pitied  her 
for  her  comparatively  inexpensive  prize.  She  had  re- 
torted that  she  considered  a  ruby  hatpin  a  rather  doubt- 
ful blessing.  .  .  . 

"Here  you  will  kneel,"  Father  Antoine  was  saying 
softly. 

She  glanced  quickly  up  at  the  man  beside  her.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  straight  ahead.  His  lips  moved  in 
prayer.  He  was  unconscious  of  her. 

A  curious  impulse  seized  her  which  she  could  not  have 
explained. 

"I  will  stand,  father,  since — since  he  must,"  she  said, 

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very  low,  and  bowed  her  dark  head  most  reverently,  as 
free  as  the  man  beside  her  from  any  wandering  thought, 
to  receive  the  blessing  of  his  Church  for  her  and  her 
husband. 


IX 

SHE  had  signed  her  name,  Evelyn  Bleeck  Jaffray, 
for  the  last  time.  Card  for  the  first  time,  it  ap- 
peared, had  written  his  as  Edward.  He,  like  his 
father  before  him,  had  been  known  as  Ed,  simply,  and, 
the  priest  assured  them,  smiling,  had  been  loath  to 
change  it. 

"Indeed,"  said  the  little  man,  "I  baptized  thee  Ed,  my 
son,  so  that  I  might  be  allowed  to  save  thy  soul  at  all: 
he  was  obstinate,  thy  father — ma  foil  But  a  good  man 
— a  good  man,  though  a  silent,"  he  added  hastily,  and 
they  crossed  themselves  soberly. 

To  Evelyn's  relief,  they  had  slipped  into  French 
(Vrooman,  though  he  rarely  spoke,  understanding  it 
perfectly)  and  she  determined  to  indulge  herself  thus 
for  some  days,  at  any  rate,  until  she  had  arranged  other 
matters  to  her  liking  and  settled  definitely  to  what  must 
be  her  occupation  for  more  than  many  days.  She  was 
quite  composed  outwardly,  and  knew  that  when  she 
should  have  left  everything  else  behind  and  could  face 
her  charge  and  her  duties  alone,  she  would  be  as  calm  as 
she  seemed  to  them. 

There  were  no  preparations  for  food  in  the  cabin; 
Vrooman  had  ordered  a  cold  lunch  on  the  special  car. 
It  had  been  like  his  tact;  a  wedding  breakfast,  even  of 
baked  beans  and  coffee,  would  have  been  too  absurd,  she 
felt.  Besides,  she  liked  best  to  remember  the  clean, 

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open  cabin  as  a  church :  two  great  hemlock  boughs,  fresh 
cut,  had  lain,  the  only  decoration,  on  the  mantel,  with  a 
small  branch  over  the  Virgin's  picture  and  St.  Joseph. 

Vrooman  had  carried  a  small  satchel  with  him  through 
the  woods  and  from  it  he  now  took  a  pint  bottle,  prom- 
isingly dusty,  and  five  small,  clear  glasses,  nested  care- 
fully in  tissue  paper. 

"I  forego  a  wedding  cake  with  pleasure,  madame," 
said  he,  opening  the  bottle  deftly  with  a  little  silver 
corkscrew,  "but  I  cannot  let  a  bride  go  forth  untoasted ! 
I  made  a  mysterious  point  of  this  Burgundy,  and  Palmer 
was  not  a  little  curious,  I  assure  you.  It  won't  be  a  bad 
thing,  in  the  end,  I  think?" 

Displeased  at  first  (she  saw,  in  a  flash,  the  wooden 
table  heaped  with  satin-bound  boxes  doled  out  by  a 
wary  footman,  and  smiled  nervously)  Evelyn  forced  the 
smile  to  cordiality. 

"But  it  was  sweet  of  you !"  she  said  and  felt  it,  hon- 
estly, as  they  all  raised  the  beading  glasses.  It  made  a 
quaint  picture  in  that  primitive,  manly  room:  the  noon 
sun  threw  garnets,  rubies  and  carbuncles  of  light  across 
the  boards.  They  drank,  the  boy  in  frightened  little 
sips,  Card  at  one  nervous  gulp. 

"Another?"  said  Vrooman  to  him.  "It  will  not  come 
amiss,  perhaps — you  have  a  trying  journey  before  you. 
— Mrs.  Card,  to  your  very  good  health  and  a  much  de- 
served happiness!" 

She  drank  gravely. 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Vrooman,  indeed,  I  do  thank  you," 
she  said,  then  turning  to  the  silent  figure  in  the  chair, 

"A  vous — Edouard!"  she  said. 

"Thank  God  she's  no  silly,  missish  fool,"  the  lawyer 
thought.  "That's  the  way  to  do  it!" 

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Card  looked  deep  into  her  eyes,  the  direct,  open  look 
of  a  child.  He  raised  his  glass  and  imitated  her  care- 
fully. 

"A  vous"  he  began,  and  then,  remembering  the  priest's 
usual  form  of  address  for  her,  repeated  slowly,  for  the 
first  time, 

"A  vous,  madame!" 

Before  the  ceremony  he  had  just  witnessed,  Vrooman 
would  have  said  encouragingly, 

"He  will  learn  rapidly!" 

But,  somehow,  now,  he  could  not.  He  could  no  more 
have  ventured  it  than  he  could  have,  had  she  married 
any  man  of  their  own  world. 

"We  had  better  be  starting,"  he  said  bluntly,  to  hide 
a  sudden  emotion  at  this  realization  of  the  bond — the 
unmistakable  bond — between  the  two  whose  interests  he 
had  helped  to  make  one. 

"Perhaps  if  you  wait  here  a  moment,  Mrs.  Card,  we 
can  arrange  better  .  .  ." 

She  saw  that  he  meant  to  spare  her  again.  "But  that  is 
nonsense,"  she  said  calmly.  "Of  course  I  shan't  wait 
here.  Perhaps  I  can  help." 

"Just  as  you  wish,"  he  answered  submissively.  "Shall 
we  come  now,  Father  Antoine?" 

The  priest  leaned  over  the  rude  chair;  his  mouth 
worked.  "Ah,  mon  fils,  mon  fits!"  he  cried,  and  taking 
the  bearded  face  in  his  hands  he  kissed,  quite  simply,  one 
cheek  and  then  the  other. 

"It  is  like  a  son  to  me,  madame,"  he  said.  "Think! 
I  baptized  him,  and  now — I  marry  him!  When  I  think 
that  I  may  never  see  him  again " 

"But,  mon  pcre,  why  should  you  think  so?  Of  course 
you  will  see  him  again!"  she  assured  him. 

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"How  that  man  will  worship  her !"  thought  the  lawyer, 
marking  the  gratitude  in  Card's  eyes. 

The  mounting  was  not  so  difficult,  after  all,  as  he  had 
feared.  And  it  was  Evelyn's  quiet  suggestion  that  Card 
should  use  his  crutches  to  help  himself  that  accom- 
plished it  most  readily ;  she  had  realized  better  than  they 
the  enormous  strength  of  his  shoulders.  Once  in  the 
crude  box  of  a  seat,  his  feet  curled  up  in  the  hammock- 
like  support,  he  looked,  not  the  helpless  doll  Vrooman 
had  feared  for  her,  but,  rather,  a  wounded  soldier.  The 
priest  walked  close  beside  him,  the  boy,  Del,  led  the  mule, 
Vrooman  rode  ahead  and  Evelyn,  so  close  behind  that 
her  mule's  nose  touched  the  rope-like  tail  in  front,  talked 
steadily  and  easily  of  indifferent  matters. 

She  would  have  preferred  the  privilege  of  silence  and 
her  thoughts,  but  she  could  see,  after  an  attempt  at  this, 
that  the  great  body  in  front  of  her  poised  steadier,  the 
strong  hands  gripped  the  wooden  sides  of  the  seat  less 
cruelly,  so  that  the  strong  fingers  grew  white  under  the 
dark  hair,  when  she  was  speaking.  On  the  fourth  finger 
of  his  left  hand  she  noticed  now  a  dull  seal  ring,  heavy 
and  quaint,  it  looked  like  bronze.  The  trail  was  not 
wide  enough  to  carry  his  tall  crutches  across  either  sad- 
dle, so  Del  and  the  priest  marched  with  them,  like 
staves. 

After  the  first  two  miles  Evelyn  grew  restless,  and 
begged  Pere  Antoine  to  change  places  with  her.  The 
color  which  the  Burgundy  had  brought  to  Card's  cheeks 
had  faded;  his  eyes  looked  strained.  She  fell  into  place 
by  his  side  and  looking  up  at  him  easily,  put  her  hand 
on  the  wooden  seat. 

''It  is  probable  that  you  are  sitting  very  stiffly,  tnon 
ami,"  she  said.  "Even  on  that  hard  seat,  I  am  sure  that 

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if  you  will  relax  a  little  more  and  let  your  body  give 
with  the  motion  of  the  animal,  and  trust  to  your  balance, 
you  will  find  it  easier.  The  seat  is  firmly  lashed,  and 
in  any  case  it  would  not  slip  suddenly — you  would  have 
warning." 

He  mastered  his  fear  with  an  evident  effort,  but  re- 
laxed instantly:  it  was  clear  that  he  would  have  got 
down  and  attempted  to  walk  if  she  had  told  him  to. 

"Now  that  one  sees  how  easily  you  mount  and  ride 
the  mule,"  she  went  on,  noting  how  the  praise  raised 
his  flagging  shoulders,  "there  seems  to  me  to  be  no  rea- 
son why  you  should  not  ride  in  the  same  way  in  Switzer- 
land— if  we  can  find  an  animal  large  enough,"  she  added 
with  a  smile. 

He  drew  a  long,  heavy  breath. 

"I,  madame?  If"  he  whispered,  "I  could  ride  in 
Brieg?" 

"Why  not?"  she  said. 

The  trail  began  to  widen  out,  and  the  trees  grew 
sparser. 

"Do  you  remark,"  she  began,  seeing  that  he  rode  more 
easily  now,  dropping  the  terrible  strain  that  the  new  mo- 
tion must  have  forced  him  to  put  upon  himself,  "that 
I  no  longer  call  you  monsieur  ?  There  is  a  reason  for  it." 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  promptly. 

"People  who — who  have  been  married  call  each  other 
by  their  names,"  she  said,  low,  but  very  clearly,  for  Vroo- 
man  was  far  ahead,  the  priest  had  dropped  behind,  lost 
in  his  thoughts,  and  it  was  clear  that  the  boy,  Del,  did 
not  understand  French.  "It  would  be  thought  strange, 
in  the  world,  if  you  called  me  only  'madame,'  like  that." 

"What,  then,  shall  I  say?"  he  asked. 

"When  we  speak  in  French,  like  this,  as — as  I  like  to 

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do,"  she  said,  "you  could  call  me  Eve,  as  my  friends  do." 

She  pronounced  it  in  the  French  manner  and  he  re- 
peated the  word  thoughtfully. 

"Eve,"  he  murmured  thoughtfully,  "Eve.  The  name 
of  Adam's  wife.  It  is  a  beautiful  name.  I  suppose  you 
are  also  named  Marie  ?  Eve-Marie  ?" 

"Oh,  no.    Evelyn  is  my  name." 

"But  all  women  should  be  named  Marie — is  it  not  so? 
It  is,  at  any  rate,  better,  I  am  sure,"  he  said,  with  con- 
viction. "I  think  I  should  call  you  Eve-Marie.  I  will 
ask  Pere  Antoine." 

"That  is  not  necessary,"  she  replied  quickly,  amazed 
at  the  decision  in  his  tone,  but  recognizing  it  as  quickly, 
as  she  had  before,  when  he  had  elected  to  stand  by  her 
side.  "Call  me  so,  by  all  means,  since  you  wish  it. 
There  is  no  reason  for  any  man  to  ask  a  priest  what  he 
shall  call  his — his  wife." 

"Is  there  not?"  he  asked,  surprised. 

"You  cannot  expect  to  turn  to  him  any  more,  as  you 
have  been  used  to  do.  For  one  thing,  he  will  not  be 
there." 

"That  is  true,"  he  returned,  and  they  went  on  in 
silence,  a  strange  little  group,  like  a  picture  of  the  Flight 
into  Egypt,  where  the  artist  had  confused  the  figures. 

On  the  edge  of  the  dusty  road  two  sagging  "carry- 
alls" waited  for  them,  manned  by  two  somnolent  drivers. 
Card  helped  himself  down  from  the  mule  stiffly,  but  it 
was  perfectly  plain  to  all  of  them  that  to  assist  him  in 
any  way  into  the  seat  of  the  wagon  would  be  impossible. 
He  could  not  swing  himself  so  high  and  the  lift  to  either 
seat  was  too  awkward  for  the  men.  Vrooman  and  the 
priest  looked  at  each  other  in  confusion ;  Card  looked 
steadily  at  Evelyn.  There  was  clearly  no  doubt  what- 

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ever  in  his  mind  that  she  would  find  a  way.  She  stooo, 
considering : 

"We  should  have  brought  the  chair,"  said  Vrooman 
shortly.  "Let  the  boy  go  back " 

"Come  here,"  Evelyn  said  to  the  least  stupid  of  the 
drivers.  "Come  here,  please,  and  let  down  the  back- 
piece  of  this  wagon — I  see  that  it  unbolts.  And  could 
you  not  take  out  the  back  seat,  unharness  the  horse,  and 
tip  the  back  of  the  wagon  down?  We  could  sit  on  the 
floor.  You  are  strong  enough,  are  you  not?" 

They  rode  backward  together,  leaning  against  the  seat. 
Vrooman  and  the  priest  sat  in  the  other  wagon,  and  the 
boy,  after  a  shy  handshake,  went  back  with  the  mules. 

"You  were  not  alarmed?"  she  asked  him,  as  they  jolted 
along. 

"Oh,  no.  I  knew  that  you  would  know  a  way,"  he  an- 
swered simply. 

"It  may  be  a  little  awkward  at  Babley's  Mills,"  she 
warned  him,  "but  after  that  there  will  be  no  difficulty. 
At  every  large  station  there  are  wheeled  chairs,  and  you 
can  be  pushed  up  some  kind  of  gangplank  perfectly 
easily.  I  did  not  bring  your  chair  because  we  can  buy 
a  new  one,  much  better,  and  easier,  I  am  sure,  to  push, 
very  soon." 

"As  you  say,"  he  answered,  and  after  a  moment  she 
saw  that  his  head  had  fallen  forward  and  that  he  slept, 
the  sleep  of  an  exhausted  child. 

At  the  little  country  station  they  encountered  their 
worst  difficulty,  as  she  had  foreseen.  Fortunately,  they 
were  the  only  passengers  to  take  train  there,  and  after 
two  disheartening  attempts  to  mount  the  steps,  Card's 
long  legs  in  their  cheap,  ill-fitting  trousers  wavering 
helplessly,  his  timid  bulk  refusing  to  trust  itself  to  their 

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unpracticed  attempts,  his  jaw  set  nervously  under  the 
rough  beard,  Evelyn  felt  a  little  sick  thrill  of  doubt. 
What  good  was  money,  here?  Had  she  been  too  cer- 
tain? He  turned  appealing,  weary  eyes  on  her,  and  she 
felt  that  he  was  calling  on  his  final  strength  of  nerve:  i 
the  strange  faces,  even  the  brakemen's  and  the  drivers,' 
annoyed  him.  The  few  passengers  were  craning  out  of 
their  windows,  the  train  was  waiting. 

The  last  car  of  all  was  a  freight,  half  piled  with  fra- 
grant new-milled  timbers;  it  had  just  been  attached. 
There  was  no  luggage  van,  and  her  bags  and  Vrooman's 
were  piled  on  one  of  the  platforms.  The  lawyer  never 
traveled  without  a  heavy  steamer  rug,  rolled  into  a 
strapped  bundle,  and  jerking  this  suddenly  from  the  little 
heap,  Evelyn  unrolled  it  rapidly. 

"Give  me  five  dollars,  please,"  she  said  quickly  to 
Vrooman,  and  pressing  it  into  the  hand  of  the  impatient 
but  obviously  interested  brakeman,  she  spoke  to  him  de- 
cidedly. 

"If  you  will  lay  that  baggage  slide  against  the  bunker, 
there,  and  wrap  him  in  this,  like  a  hammock,  you  could 
pull  him  up  quite  easily,  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "and 
someone  could  ride  with  him  on  those  boards,  as  far  as 
Malone.  It  will  be  much  the  easiest  way,  and  perfectly 
safe,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Why  .  .  .  it'd  be  safe  enough,  I  s'pose,"  said  the  man 
doubtfully,  "but  I'd  have  to  ask — it's  against  the  rules." 

But  Father  Antoine  had  caught  her  low  words  and 
was  dragging  himself  at  the  heavy  baggage  slide,  prop- 
ping it  as  she  had  suggested.  In  a  moment  Card  was 
stretched  against  it,  twisted  in  the  heavy  rug.  His  feet, 
in  their  coarse  gray  socks,  dangled  helplessly;  the  great 
shoes,  pitifully  clumsy  and  thick-soled,  seemed  incredibly 

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far  away  from  his  waist.  His  eyes  were  terrified. 
Vrooman  bit  his  lip  angrily:  he  had  wished  the  chair 
brought,  from  the  beginning.  Evelyn  saw  the  look  on 
his  face  and  forgot  the  absurd  shoes,  the  crinkled  trous- 
ers; she  squared  her  shoulders. 

"Now,"  she  said  authoritatively,  "you  two  men  climb 
up  there  and  pull.  Father,  steady  him  from  below.  Give 
me  your  hand,  man  ami,  and  fear  nothing:  the  men  are 
strong  and  could  drag  twice  your  weight  in  this  fashion. 
I  shall  be  with  you.  Hurry,  now!" 

And  as  the  men  pulled  from  above  and  his  arm  stif- 
fened unconsciously,  she  threw  her  weight  against  his 
and  pushed  hard.  Before  the  brakeman  had  crowded 
the  green  bill  into  his  pocket,  Card  was  lying  on  the  firm, 
fragrant  lumber-pile,  the  rug  draped  over  his  useless 
limbs,  his  head  on  the  little  priest's  lap. 

"Go  ahead!"  the  brakeman  shouted  to  an  indignant 
conductor,  whom  Vrooman  joined  presently  with  a  wel- 
coming hand  lined  pleasantly  with  crackling  yellow,  and 
even  as  the  priest  murmured, 

"Enfin!  Behold  us,  mon  fils,  safe  and  sound !  Madame 
will  join  us  at  the  Junction,  and  till  then  I  am  with 
thee."  Evelyn  dropped  panting  beside  them,  and  the 
train  jerked  and  started. 

"You  here,  madame?"  cried  the  little  priest,  amazed. 

"Where  else  should  I  be,  mon  ptref"  she  replied  tran- 
quilly, and  smiled,  the  smile  of  a  competent  trained 
nurse,  at  the  flushed  face  under  the  heavy  beard. 

"There  will  be  no  more  trouble  now,"  she  said.  "You 
have  been  very  sensible  and  brave.  Shall  we  talk  about 
the  Alps?" 

At  Malone  there  was  a  half-hour's  wait,  and  while 
they  sat,  the  priest  and  his  pupil,  on  the  observation 

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platform  of  their  special  car,  Card  in  one  of  the  wheeled 
chairs  of  the  station  equipment,  his  nerves  calmed  by  its 
familiar  contacts,  his  great  strength  entirely  refreshed  by 
the  recuperative  sleep  on  the  flat-car,  staring  eagerly  at 
the  bustle  all  about  him,  Vrooman  and  Evelyn,  together 
in  the  dining-room  behind,  exchanged  a  few  last  words. 

''Here  is  the  money,"  he  said,  "as  much  as  you  will 
probably  want  to  carry  in  bills — I  ordered  this  traveler's 
belt,  on  the  chance  that  you  hadn't  one.  These  are  ex- 
press drafts,  and  here  is  a  check-book,  in  case  you  want 
to  open  an  account  anywhere.  My  address,  here  and  in 
London,  is  written  in  it,  and  you  can  always  telegraph. 
Here  are  small  bills  and  silver,  as  you  asked." 

She  took  the  shiny  leather  case  with  a  matter-of-fact 
nod  of  thanks. 

"And  here,"  he  continued,  holding  out  to  her  a  small, 
square  box,  "here  is  something  I  could  not  deny  myself. 
I  hope  you  will  not  mind:  it  is  really  not  so  much  a 
wedding  gift  as  a  souvenir.  So  long  as  you  keep  it  I 
shall  know  that  the  memory,  and  all  that  it  implies,  is  a 
pleasant  one,  and  that  you  are  glad  of  it.  If  it  ceases 
to  be  a  pleasant  one,  if  for  any  reason  you  regret  it, 
send  this  back  to  me,  will  you?" 

He  meant  more  than  an  idle  request  and  she  knew 
that  he  meant  more.  She  opened  the  little  box,  unfolded 
the  cotton,  and  drew  out  a  slender  bracelet,  only  a  frac- 
tion of  an  inch  wide,  a  solid  band  of  close-set  amethysts. 

"What  a  beauty !"  she  cried  and  slipped  it  mechanically 
over  her  wrist. 

"Carlier  had  it  with  him,  it  was  set  as  a  sample,"  he 
explained,  "and  I  made  him  let  me  have  it.  Do  you 
really  care  for  it:  and  you  will  accept  it?" 

"I  will  always  wear  it,"  she  said  impulsively,  "and  it 

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shall  remind  me  of  you,  Mr.  Vrooman — not  that  I  need 
any  reminder,"  and  she  smiled  a  little  tremulously. 

"And  you  will  accept  the  terms  with  it?"  he  persisted. 
"You  will  send  it  back  if— if " 

She  thought  only  of  the  weariness  of  her  compact,  that 
he  undoubtedly  feared.  She  knew  her  strength  in  that  re- 
gard better  than  he.  She  saw  the  future,  as  she  thought, 
and  knew  herself  able  for  it. 

"Yes,  my  friend — my  good  friend,"  she  said  gravely, 
"I  will.  I  accept  the  terms." 

"You  need  not  write,"  said  he,  "only  send  it.  God 
bless  you,  my  dear.  I  wish  you  every  possible  happi- 
ness." 

He  was  not  a  young  man,  and  there  was  a  full  life 
behind  him,  but  as  he  faced  her,  gray-haired  and  re- 
served, the  ribbon  of  his  pince-nez  shadowing  his  smooth- 
shaven  cheek,  his  keen  eyes  drew  away  from  hers  with 
difficulty.  He  knew,  definitely,  what  he  had  missed,  and 
that  he  had  never,  even  in  a  youth  which  had  contained 
many  opportunities,  cared  for  any  woman  as  he  could 
have  cared  for  this  one. 

Pere  Antoine  had  made  his  adieux  and  was  ready  to 
leave :  she  saw  a  small,  worn  book  in  Card's  hand. 

"I  will  put  the  key  of  the  cabin  where  you  know," 
he  said,  his  voice  gone  a  little  flat  from  fatigue,  "and  I 
will  go  in  once  a  fortnight,  and  see  that  all  is  right. 
Ma  foi,"  he  turned  to  the  two  in  the  door,  "I  have  gone 
there  too  often  these  twenty- four  years  to  stop  now! 
And  I  shall  watch  for  thy  letters.  And  if  it  should  be 
that  thou  shouldst  go  to  Brieg,  ever  .  .  ." 

"But,  mon  p'ere,  of  course  we  go  to  Brieg,"  Evelyn 
smiled  at  him  and  took  his  hand.  "More  than  that,  we 
will  send  you  photographs  of  the  church  there  and  all 

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the  news  that  we  can  find — n'est-ce  pas,  mon  ami — 
Edouard?" 

He  was  watching  a  pretense  at  a  scuffle  between  two 
of  the  station  hands.  It  was  to  him  as  absorbing  as  a 
melodrama:  already  there  were  violet  circles  under  his 
intense,  blue  eyes. 

"Oui,  oui,"  he  muttered  absently,  and  the  priest  smiled 
sadly. 

"He  is  far  away  already,  madame,  farther  than  Brieg," 
he  said  gently.  "Adieu,  madame,  adieu." 

The  train  pulled  slowly  away.  Her  eyes  met  Vroo- 
man's ;  she  waved  her  hand  with  the  thread  of  amethyst 
dropping  over  it.  The  priest  gazed  wistfully  at  them. 
But  Card's  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  scuffling  pair  at 
the  edge  of  the  platform. 

They  were  clear  of  the  yards  now,  the  train  gained 
way:  Evelyn  sank  on  the  plush  sofa  and  closed  her 
eyes;  a  great  fatigue  fell  on  her.  But  she  pulled  her- 
self together,  remembering  that  it  had  been  many  hours 
since  they  ate.  She  moved  her  hand  to  the  button  that 
would  summon  the  waiter;  then  withdrew  it,  rose,  re- 
luctantly, but  with  determination,  and  herself  opened  the 
wicker  basket  Vrooman's  care  had  provided. 

"Come,  mon  ami,"  she  said,  "shall  I  help  you  through 
the  door?  Let  us  eat,  now — we  shall  both  be  the  better 
for  it.  Here  are  sandwiches  and  stuffed  eggs  and  peaches 
— I  see  now  that  I  have  been  hungry  for  some  time.  I 
think  I  will  order  a  pot  of  coffee." 

"Yes,  I  should  like  coffee,"  he  said  quickly.  The 
sight  of  food  taught  him,  suddenly,  too,  what  he  needed, 
and  without  any  further  word  he  put  his  big  hand  into 
the  basket,  drew  out  two  of  the  sandwiches  at  once,  and 
plunged  half  of  the  double  layer  of  slices  into  his 

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mouth.  His  strong  jaws  met  on  the  food  with  a  snap 
like  an  animal's ;  he  chewed  noisily.  She  stared  at  him, 
faint  and  horrified. 

He  lifted  out  an  egg  and  stripped  the  oiled  paper 
from  it  with  a  whispered  exclamation. 

"It  has  lost  its  shell !"  he  cried.  "Well,  so  much  the 
easier!"  and  shot  it,  whole,  into  his  open  mouth. 

Evelyn  grasped  the  edge  of  her  seat;  it  seemed  to  her 
that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  might  be  going 
to  faint.  The  room  began  to  swim  and  wave  before  her. 

"But  what  will  he  do?"  she  thought.  "How  can  I 
faint?  What  will  he  do?" 

Her  new  black  handbag  lay  close  beside  her;  she  re- 
membered, suddenly,  a  tiny  flask  of  cologne,  fitted  into 
the  side  of  it.  With  fumbling  fingers  she  managed  to 
reach  it,  and  spun  the  silver  tip  round  and  round.  Just 
as  his  face  began  to  recede  before  her  eyes,  growing 
smaller  and  infinitely  distant,  she  tipped  the  doll-like  bot- 
tle against  her  teeth  and  gulped  down  the  scented  alcohol. 
It  stung  her  like  liquid  fire  and  the  room  cleared  sud- 
denly. She  coughed  and  swallowed  again;  the  blood 
rushed  back  to  her  cheeks. 

"I  will  turn  my  back  and  eat,"  she  thought,  trembling 
slightly.  "I  am  tired — that  is  all.  After  to-day  .  .  ." 

But  her  eyes  fell  on  the  shining  amethyst  circle  about 
her  wrist,  and  it  was  as  if  she  saw  James  Vrooman's 
lifted  eyebrows.  She  stiffened  and  scowled  slightly. 

"Wait,  mon  ami,  wait,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "You  are 
not  eating  in  the  proper  way.  When  one  is  out  in  the 
world  one  would  be  remarked  instantly  if  he  ate  his  food 
so  quickly.  We  will  have  the  waiter  come  in  and  spread 
a  small  table,  and  you  shall  watch  me  and  try  to  do  as 
I  shall  do." 

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He  put  back  his  hand  instantly  into  the  basket. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  thickly,  "but  will  it  be  long? 
I  am  hungry,  me." 

"And  I  also,"  said  Eve.    "It  will  not  be  long." 

And  when  the  obsequious  darky  had  left  them  alone, 
she  ate  her  wedding  breakfast,  a  meal  of  elementary 
nursery  instruction,  over  eggs  and  a  plate  of  triangular 
sandwiches. 

When  the  hot,  strong  coffee  had  steadied  her,  and  a 
merciful,  full-fed  drowsiness  began  to  creep  over  her 
whole  body,  she  helped  him  out  onto  the  platform  again, 
and  fastened  back  the  door  between. 

"I  am  going  to  lie  down  on  this  little  sofa,"  she  said, 
"you  have  only  to  call  to  me,  if  you  want  me.  I  should 
like  to  sleep.  You  did  as  I  explained,  especially  with 
the  peaches,  and  you  will  very  soon  eat  just  as  I  do. 
Then  we  can  go  to  the  pension  at  Brieg,  and  sit  at  the 
very  table,  doubtless,  where  Pere  Antoine  sat.  That  will 
please  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "Oh,  yes.  I  will  eat  always  just 
as  you  say.  It  takes  a  long  time,  but  I  will  do  it." 

"We  shall  be  there  in  two  hours,"  she  said,  and  stretch- 
ing herself  on  the  narrow  couch,  an  unlit  cigarette  be- 
tween her  fingers,  she  passed  instantly  into  sleep. 

Only  in  the  second  before  unconsciousness  she  peered 
at  him  under  her  dark  lashes.  Moved  by  some  obscure 
impulse,  he  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  the  worn  breviary, 
Pere  Antoine's  parting  gift,  and  sat,  a  dark  and  heavy 
silhouette  against  the  flying  scenery,  his  lips  moving  like 
a  priest's. 

"And  this  is  my  wedding  journey!"  she  thought  .  .  . 
and  laughed,  and  sighed,  and  slept. 


I  WANT  a  good  hotel  very  near  the  terminal,"  she 
said  to  the  taller  of  the  two  men  in  uniform  who 
helped  them  down  the  broad  gangplank,  "and  I 
should  like  it  with  a  bath — a  Turkish  bath — connected,  if 
there  is  such  a  one.  Is  there?" 

He  looked  a  little  helpless  till  his  fellow  porter  ex- 
plained in  Canadian  French  what  was  wanted.  Evelyn, 
her  information  gained,  addressed  the  larger  man  again, 
this  time  in  French. 

"Could  you  wheel  monsieur  there,"  she  asked,  "and 
could  you  stay  with  us  over  night  and  help  him,  should 
he  require  it?  I  shall  get  a  nurse  in  the  morning,  but 
I  like  the  way  you  helped  him  down.  If  you  could 
get  off  I  would  pay  well." 

"That  will  arrange  itself,  madame,  my  time  is  up  with 
the  arrival  of  this  train,"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  glad  to 
earn  a  little  more.  I  am  used  to  invalids;  my  brother, 
a  heavy  man,  has  a  broken  hip." 

He  was  a  big,  simple  fellow,  not  talkative,  plainly  ob- 
livious to  the  difference  in  appearance  of  his  patrons. 
Had  any  more  critical  passer-by  been  at  leisure  to  ob- 
serve the  pair;  the  trim,  well-tailored  woman,  with  her 
fresh  leather  outfittings,  her  easy  air  of  command,  lean- 
ing over  the  startled  giant  in  his  wrinkled  gray  flannel 
collar,  staring  in  undisguised  amazement  at  the  bustle  all 
around  him;  his  eyes  aflame  with  excitement  above  his 

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bearded  cheeks,  such  an  one  would  have  studied  them 
curiously,  puzzled  to  guess  their  relation  to  each  other. 

Once  safe  in  their  comfortable  little  sitting-room,  Eve- 
lyn drew  a  long  breath  of  relief;  the  streets  had  alarmed 
him. 

"Monsieur  has  no  luggage  whatever,  it  was  left  be- 
hind," she  said  to  the  porter.  "Ask  the  head  valet  for 
what  he  will  need  for  the  night.  We  shall  dine  here, 
arid  I  shall  not  want  any  table  service — we  will  wait 
upon  ourselves.  You  will  attend  monsieur  afterward  and 
sleep  upon  the  sofa  in  his  room.  It  is  better  that  he 
does  not  talk — he  is  fatigued  and  nervous." 

"Bien,  madatne,"  said  the  big  peasant  quietly  and  left 
the  room. 

Evelyn  had  inherited  from  her  father  the  capacity  for 
picking  men  that  had  made  him  the  idol  of  his  jackies. 
No  one  could  have  better  suited  Card's  overwrought 
nerves  than  this  quiet,  friendly  fellow  with  the  wood- 
man's quick  silent  step. 

Like  an  overexcited  child,  he  could  not  eat,  and  she 
had  an  impulse  to  spare  him  any  comment  over  the  peril- 
ous soup,  which  was  all  he  wanted.  But  the  impulse 
passed  as  quickly  as  it  came. 

"This  is  also  a  lesson,  won  ami,"  she  said  firmly  and 
he  sighed  and  watched  her  spoon. 

"Why  is  he  not  with  us — Jean?"  he  asked  suddenly. 
"Is  there  no  supper  for  him?" 

"Of  course — he  is  with  the  other  servants,  I  sup- 
pose," she  answered,  abstracted:  there  was  much  to 
think  of. 

"Servants?"  he  queried,  his  great  hand  bent  painfully 
about  the  handle  of  his  spoon,  his  elbow  stiff  with  his 
effort. 

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"He  is  a  servant,  Jean,"  she  explained.  "He  is  hired 
to  wait  upon  you — to  help  you  with  your  dressing  and 
undressing,  to  make  you  comfortable.  But  he  will  never 
eat  with  you." 

"No.    Why?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  it  is  not  the  custom.  You  have  read  of  ser- 
vants, surely?" 

He  bent  his  heavy  brows  for  a  moment.  "Ah,  yes,  of 
course,"  he  cried,  "it  is  in  the  Gospel.  'He  that  would 
be  first  among  you,  let  him  be  as  a  servant' — it  is  be- 
cause Jean  would  be  first,  then?" 

"N — no,  not  exactly  that,"  she  said  patiently.  "He 
has  his  living  to  earn  like  the  rest  of  the  world — he 
does  this  for  money.  You  have  the  money  and  so  you 
pay  him." 

"And  how  do  I  earn  my  living?"  he  asked. 

"At  present,  you  do  not,"  she  said.  "You  were  for- 
tunate enough  to  inherit  a  large  sum  of  money  from  your 
father." 

"And  how  did  he  earn  that  sum?"  Card  demanded. 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Evelyn. 

His  eyes  searched  hers  like  a  child's. 

"I  am  not  sure  I  understand,"  he  said  wearily.  "He 
never  told  me  of  those  pearls,  my  father.  Did  he  know 
that  I  could  have  ascended  the  mountains — even  in  my 
chair?  That  I  could  wheel  myself  through  the  streets 
and  see  all  the  men  and  women?  He  knew  the  pearls 
were  in  that  box  and  never  told  me  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  he  had  any  idea  of  their  value,"  she 
said.  "One  must  have  lived  in  great  cities  to  know  many 
things  of  that  sort." 

"I  should  like  to  live  here,"  he  announced.  "To-mor- 
row let  us  go  out  again  into  the  streets,  Eve-Marie.  But 

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now  I  am  sleepy  and — and  you,  too,  are  yawning,  are 
you  not?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  began,  blushing  with  an- 
noyance, "I  am  sorry.  To-day  has  been  .  .  ." 

"But  why  are  you  sorry?"  he  cried,  surprised.  "It  is 
not  wrong  to  yawn  ?  I  often  do  so.  Should  not  women 


yawn 


Foolish  tears — tears  of  frank  fatigue — started  to  her 
eyes.  After  all,  she  was  not  thirty. 

"I — I  think  I  will  rest  now,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "Jean 
is  waiting  for  you.  Ask  him  for  anything  you  want — 
do  not  hesitate  to  disturb  him.  Only  I  would  not  talk 
with  him,  for  I  can  tell  you  what  you  may  wish  to 
know  better  than  he." 

"I  am  sure  you  can,"  he  said  simply.  "Good-night, 
then,"  she  said,  extending  her  hand. 

But  he  did  not  offer  his  own.  His  eyes  widened,  he 
grasped  the  chair  fearfully. 

"You — you  are  going?  You  will  leave  me  here  alone?" 
he  gasped. 

She  stiffened  and  her  hand  dropped  to  her  side. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  began,  in  a  deep,  startled 
voice. 

"I  shall  be  here,  of  course,  in  that  room  ...  if  there 
is  anything  I  can  do  ...  what  do  you  mean?" 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"I  thought  you  were  saying  good-by,"  he  explained. 
"When  you  went  away  before  you  gave  me  your  hand, 
and  I  thought " 

"Oh,  no,"  and  she  took  his  hand  determinedly,  "not 
that.  I  shall  always  be  with  you,  mon  ami.  This  is 
only  good-night." 

She  had  thought  to  sleep  after  tears,  but  to  touch  the 

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pillow  was  to  sink  into  oblivion  so  profound  that  even 
the  dreams  she  dreaded  passed  her  by. 

Jean  told  her  that  his  charge  was  still  asleep,  a  half- 
hour  after  she  had  breakfasted,  and  after  a  moment's 
thought  she  put  on  her  hat  and  a  thick  veil.  The  rest- 
less people  of  her  world  were  as  likely  to  be  in  one  city 
as  another  and  she  was  not  ready  to  meet  them  yet. 

"Jean,"  she  said,  "I  must  go  out  and  make  monsieur's 
purchases.  This  chair  belongs  to  the  railroad  and  he 
must  have  another  before  the  car  is  sent  back.  Bring 
him  some  coffee  when  he  wakes,  but  before  he  has  any- 
thing more  I  wish  you  to  take  him  down  to  the  baths  and 
get  him  a  good,  careful  attendant — one  that  is  quiet,  you 
understand.  Tell  monsieur  that  I  wish  him  to  do  as  they 
tell  him,  and  that  the  bain  Turque  will  be  good  for  him : 
do  not  let  him  be  alarmed.  I  should  like  the  barber  to 
shave  him  when  his  hair  is  cut:  tell  him  that  the  nurse 
will  attend  to  it  after  this.  Arrange  for — but  no,  the 
manicure  will  be  a  woman,"  she  interrupted.  "I  will 
arrange  for  that  here.  I  suppose  that  there  will  be  few 
people  in  the  baths  so  early?" 

"Very  few,  madame." 

"And  you  understand  that  monsieur  is  not  accustomed 
...  I  can  trust  you  to  take  care  of  him,  Jean?" 

"Madame,  I  will  take  every  care  of  monsieur.  Ma- 
dame shall  be  pleased  when  she  returns,"  he  assured  her 
placidly. 

To  him,  the  commission  of  rendering  this  bearded  in- 
habitant of  forests  fit  for  cities,  appeared  to  present 
neither  difficulty  nor  incongruity ;  he  accepted  it  as  simply 
as  any  other.  He  was  big  and  his  face  was  trusty  and 
kind:  women  had  laden  him  with  responsibilities  ever 
since  he  could  remember. 

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Once  in  the  big  shops,  everything  but  the  keen  interest 
of  the  moment  left  her.  She  had,  as  is  not  unusual  in 
women,  a  distinct  taste  for  the  limited  choices,  the  aus- 
tere elegance,  of  men's  wear.  The  very  range  of  pos- 
sibility, the  endless  variety  of  feminine  chiffons,  the  curb 
set  only  by  the  pocketbook  to  her  sex's  fury  of  spend- 
ing, fatigued  her  mind  as  it  fatigues  the  mind  of  man. 
It  is  doubtful  if  any  enticement  of  gauze  or  swirl  of 
artful  velvet  has  ever  equaled  the  lure,  for  Adam's  sons, 
of  the  trained  nurse's  uniform;  to  what  extent  the 
widow's  inescapable  appeal  is  based  on  her  thrilling  mo- 
notony of  black,  the  poignant  perfection  of  her  conven- 
tional detail,  has  never  been  estimated;  the  seductive 
parlor-maid,  a  study  in  jet  and  ivory,  is  not  a  play- 
wright's myth.  Within  the  strict  limits  of  the  unwritten 
law,  the  really  creative  mind  takes  comfort,  as  Shake- 
speare rested  in  the  sonnet. 

Evelyn  had  never  before  assaulted  those  counters 
where  the  fruit-colored  silks  lay  in  rigid  piles;  she 
poised  uncertainly  over  somber-tinted  bathrobes,  glisten- 
ing and  heavy;  before  a  bewildering  gamut  of  neckties, 
she  wrestled  in  memory  for  the  exact  color  of  Card's 
green-blue  eyes.  Reminded  by  attentive  clerks  of  studs, 
of  sleeve  links,  of  buttons  for  evening  waistcoats,  her 
purchases  swelled  behind  her.  She  hung  fascinated  over 
the  fittings  for  a  leather  dressing-case;  she  discussed 
gravely  with  respectful  young  men  the  advantages  of 
wardrobe  trunks;  a  boy  staggering  under  his  load  of 
boots  and  slippers  followed  her.  At  the  last  she  forgot 
the  handkerchiefs. 

As  she  had  supposed,  great  progress  had  been  made 
in  the  construction  of  invalid  chairs  since  Card's  was 
planned,  and  she  was  able  to  send  a  model  of  comfort 

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and  convenience  to  the  hotel,  adaptable  to  stairs,  and 
street  curbs,  gliding  on  cunning  ball-bearings,  at  a  touch 
of  the  hand.  Hinged  crutches,  easily  bestowed  at  the 
back  of  the  chair,  could  be  adjusted  instantly  to  his  meas- 
ure, an  improved  model  of  his  homemade  scissor-tongs 
made  attendance  almost  unnecessary,  the  saleswoman  as- 
sured her. 

She  had  now  but  one  errand  left  and  as  to  this  experi- 
ence had  made  her  optimistic.  Evelyn,  her  friends  said, 
had  always  had  the  most  miraculous  luck  in  engaging 
servants.  Many  a  Jay  governess,  many  a  Bleeck  butler 
owed  their  positions  to  her;  Nelly  Schermer  considered 
her  flair  in  the  matter  of  social  secretaries  little  short 
of  miraculous.  A  half-hour  at  the  telephone  early  in 
the  morning  had  resulted  in  several  applicants  for  the 
most  important  position  she  had  ever  undertaken  to  fill. 
She  did  not  for  a  moment  underestimate  the  part  in  their 
lives  that  must  be  played  by  such  a  necessarily  confiden- 
tial servant  as  she  must  engage  for  her  husband.  On  his 
adaptability,  adroitness  and  sincere  devotion  to  their  in- 
terest much  would  depend. 

"I  want,"  she  said  in  preface,  to  the  competent  Eng- 
lishwoman behind  her  orderly  desk  in  the  employment 
bureau,  "I  want,  as  I  told  you,  a  strong,  good-sized 
person,  thoroughly  accustomed  to  the  care  of  a  man  who 
cannot  leave  a  wheel-chair.  But  it  is  distinctly  a  valet, 
not  a  nurse,  that  is  needed,  as  my  husband  is  perfectly 
well.  He  must  speak  French,  be  accustomed  to  travel, 
and  act  more  or  less  as  a  courier,  and  be  able  to  keep 
accounts  well." 

Between  a  well  set  up  Englishman  who  had  gone  as 
orderly  through  the  Boer  campaign,  a  reserved  Scotch- 
man with  a  jaw  sprung  like  a  trap,  and  a  placid  Swede, 

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who  somehow  attracted  her  the  most,  she  hesitated.  The 
Englishman  looked  the  perfect  valet ;  his  master  had  lost 
both  legs  at  Bloemfontein.  The  Scotchman  had  glow- 
ing indorsements  as  a  private  secretary  and  a  wonderful 
record  for  discretion  under  peculiarly  trying  circum- 
stances. The  Swede  admitted  that  his  French  was  not 
of  the  best  and  demanded  a  wage  beyond  even  the  gen- 
erous sum  she  offered,  because  of  a  proudly  displayed 
diploma  in  which  the  Swedish  government  attested  his 
proficiency  as  a  scientific  masseur. 

"I  do  not  doubt  that  a  knowledge  of  massage  increases 
your  value,"  Evelyn  agreed  doubtfully,  "but  your  em- 
ployer will  not  require  it,  you  see;  he  is  not  really  an 
invalid." 

"Nevertheless,  for  those  who  cannot  walk,  massage  is 
of  great  good,"  he  replied,  with  the  quiet  obstinacy  of 
his  nation.  There  was  something  about  his  placid  blond 
solidity  that  appealed  to  her. 

"I  will  have  my  husband  see  these  three  this  evening," 
she  said,  at  last.  But  the  hotel  she  mentioned  was  not 
the  one  in  which  they  had  passed  the  night. 

She  had  wondered  a  little  as  to  Card's  appearance, 
clean-shaven — he  would  look  younger,  she  supposed.  She 
had  left  directions  with  Jean  for  opening  all  the  pack- 
ages of  her  morning  expedition,  and  amused  herself 
with  guessing  whether  his  charge  would  have  chosen  the 
blue  serge  or  the  silver-gray  tweeds — the  only  garments 
of  sufficient  size  that  she  had  been  able  to  find.  He  must 
always  wear  blue  and  gray,  she  decided,  because  of  his 
sea-colored  eyes.  A  tailor's  address  was  jotted  down  on 
her  list;  an  American  dentist  had  already  received  his 
orders  for  an  appointment.  She  could  think  of  nothing 
more, 

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As  she  turned  into  the  little  hall  that  led  to  their  rooms, 
the  faithful  Jean  met  her,  bustling  and  important. 

"All  the  fine  clothes  came,  madame,"  he  said,  beaming 
with  pleasure.  "Monsieur  was  much  pleased  with  all, 
especially  the  blue  neckties  and  the  silk  socks.  There 
were  no  braces,  but  a  lad  from  the  hotel  got  me  some 
— I  told  him  of  silk.  That  was  right,  was  it  not?  And 
as  to  the  barber,  madame  will,  I  hope,  not  blame  me, 
but  monsieur  was  not  at  all  willing." 

"Not  willing?"  she  repeated,  surprised,  her  hand  on 
the  door. 

"Precisely,  madame.  A  little,  yes,  and  his  hair  is  cut 
quite  in  the  usual  way,  and,  mon  dieu,  quelle  belle  mous- 
tache! But  smooth,  he  would  not  be." 

She  was  quite  honestly  surprised.  It  had  simply  not 
occurred  to  her  that  any  one  of  her  least  orders  could 
be  disobeyed. 

He  sat  by  the  window  in  the  new,  comfortable  chair, 
his  head,  smaller  and  more  clearly  defined  in  the  smooth 
white  collar,  the  head,  almost,  of  a  stranger.  With  the 
trimming  of  his  red-brown  beard  into  the  tiny  Van  Dyck 
of  the  old  portraits,  the  entire  shape  of  the  jaw  had  al- 
tered, his  face  assumed  its  natural  oval,  the  eyes  seemed 
larger,  sadder.  The  stiff,  lumbering  lines  of  the  ugly 
flannel  shirt  had  concealed  the  firm  grace  with  which  his 
head  was  set  upon  his  shoulders ;  he  appeared  slenderer, 
younger,  and  yet,  curiously,  more  definite,  more  decided. 

So  strangely  compelling  is  the  power  of  conventional, 
becoming  clothing,  so  inexplicable  its  dominance,  that 
although  she  could  not  have  reasoned  it  through,  she  felt 
instinctively  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  take  the  at- 
titude toward  him  that  had  been  hers  when  last  she  had 
seen  him  in  their  sitting-room.  She  fought  for  it,  re- 

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alizing  blindly  that  it  meant  ease  and  impersonal  security 
for  her  in  their  relations.  But  she  could  not  defend  her- 
self against  the  mere  fact  of  that  erect,  well-tailored 
figure  in  the  window :  was  it  possible  that  a  razor,  a  pair 
of  polished  russet  shoes  and  a  suit  of  silver-gray  tweeds 
had  made  out  of  a  timid  recluse  the  dominant  male  of 
his  species?  Impossible.  And  yet,  she  could  not  have 
sent  orders  to  a  barber  to  have  that  man  shaved  in  a 
style  to  suit  herself,  and  she  knew  it.  As  she  took  his 
hand  and  murmured  some  vague  greeting,  she  noticed  the 
nails,  curved  now  and  polished,  and  felt  suddenly  dusty 
and  hot. 

"I  hope  you  liked  my  purchases,"  she  began  hastily. 
"Were  the — the  things  large  enough?  The  coat  fits  very 
well,  does  it  not?" 

"Indeed,  it  has  the  air  of  being  made  for  monsieur," 
Jean  agreed  heartily.  "I  remarked  it  at  the  time.  And 
the  trousers — only  see !"  and  he  twitched  away  the  light 
rug  she  had  not  forgotten  to  supply.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  those  long,  shapely  legs,  resting  so  easily,  apparently, 
upon  the  well  adjusted  foot-board  of  the  chair,  were 
as  incapable  of  motion  as  the  shining  new  crutches  them- 
selves. She  caught  her  breath  involuntarily:  it  seemed 
that  he  might  rise  at  any  moment  and  walk  to  her. 

"Monsieur  is  well  pleased,"  continued  Jean  impor- 
tantly, well  settled,  it  appeared,  in  his  role  of  interpreter. 
The  kindly  soul  took  it  for  granted,  evidently,  that  Card 
was  not  expected  to  talk,  and  found  it  perfectly  natural 
that  he  should  speak  for  him,  as  a  trusted  nurse  speaks 
for  her  child.  No  better  person  could  have  been  found 
to  witness  this  first  stage  in  the  progress  of  her  pilgrim. 

"But  he  has  been  with  us  long  enough,"  she  thought. 
"He  must  not  become  attached  to  us." 

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Over  her  tea-tray  she  tried  to  cover  partly  her  own 
little  shyness  with  this  new  vis-a-vis  who  looked  like 
some  Spanish  don  in  his  courtly,  pointed  beard,  to  lead 
him  into  conversation. 

"Did  you  like  the  steam  bath  ?"  she  asked.  "I  thought 
it  might  rest  you." 

"It  was  good,"  he  answered  briefly.  Then,  after  a 
pause,  "And  the  man  there  rubbed  my  legs — it  rests 
them.  No  one  has  done  so  since  my  father  died." 

He  crossed  himself  and  his  lips  moved  silently. 

"Every  night  since  I  was  a  very  little  boy — since  my 
sickness — he  rubbed  me  so  for  a  long  time.  Pere  An- 
toine  thinks  that  is  why  my  legs  are  not  withered  and 
shrunken." 

"I  see,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "I  am  glad  I  thought 
of  it." 

And  stepping  to  the  telephone  she  called  for  a  certain 
number. 

"Please  send  me  that  Swedish  valet  I  interviewed," 
she  said.  "I  shall  not  need  to  see  the  others." 

But  Swenson,  when  he  met  his  employer  that  even- 
ing in  the  new  hotel,  whither  a  strange  porter  from  the 
station  had  wheeled  him,  met  a  monsieur  so  different 
from  Jean's  charge  of  the  night  before  that  even  the 
monsieur's  wife,  sitting  in  a  trailing  white  negligee  be- 
hind a  great  bowl  of  roses,  wondered  to  herself  if  it 
could  be  her  husband  whose  orderly  belongings  lay  ready 
for  Swenson's  respectful  and  practiced  hand  in  the  bed- 
room beyond. 

She  had  made  her  usual  triumph  of  selection;  the 
valet  was  a  treasure.  Deft,  silently  comprehending 
and  tactful,  he  soon  erased,  even  from  Card's  faithful 
soul,  the  memory  of  the  friendly  Jean.  Evelyn  ad- 

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mitted  frankly  to  herself  that  without  the  weight  of  his 
calm  certainty  of  manner  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
argue  their  charge  into  the  dentist's  chair,  where,  indeed, 
he  suffered  little,  for  his  strong,  hard  teeth  were  nearly 
perfect. 

He  had  conceived  a  passion  for  the  life  of  the  crowded 
streets,  and  for  three  days  she  indulged  him,  walking 
beside  his  chair,  lost  in  her  own  thoughts,  while  his 
eager  eyes  roamed  from  left  to  right.  They  were  curi- 
ously silent  promenades,  for  she  preferred  to  be  alone 
with  him  during  their  naive  sessions  of  question  and 
answer,  and  Swenson  must  be  always  with  them,  to  push 
the  chair.  Her  nerves,  taut,  and  easily  set  a-quiver, 
jangled  apprehensively  at  the  least  suspicion  of  a  familiar 
face;  only  her  thick  veil  guarded  her  from  an  intimate 
friend  of  Nelly  Schermer's,  strolling  across  a  quiet  park. 
He  was  too  big,  too  handsome,  his  clear,  eager  eyes  were 
too  unusually  searching,  to  make  their  little  cavalcade 
anything  less  than  conspicuous,  wherever  they  might  go, 
and  she  knew  that  she  should  have  no  rest  until  she  could 
be  alone  with  him,  face  to  face  with  her  task.  With 
each  day  she  dreaded  increasingly  the  hour  when  she 
must  listen  to  this  grave  Frenchman  with  the  pure, 
slightly  bookish  intonation  of  Geneva,  turn  into  a  twang- 
ing, ungrammatical  Adirondack  guide !  And  yet,  even  as 
she  dreaded  it,  she  longed  for  it ;  as  her  eyes  dropped  to 
the  amethyst  circle  about  her  wrist.  He  should  see, 
James  Vrooman  should  see!  It  was  no  slight  compact 
she  had  made  with  herself :  neither  Bleecks  nor  Jays  nor 
Schermers  should  pity  her,  gossiping  in  their  drawing- 
rooms — they  should  envy  her ! 


XI 


A  GREAT  skyful  of  tropical  sun  poured  into  Eve- 
lyn's wide-flung  window.  The  soft  thunder  of 
the  surf,  pounding  through  her  dreams,  had 
grown  such  a  part  of  her  days  and  nights  that  without 
it  her  sleep  would  have  seemed  incomplete.  She  yawned 
and  stretched  contentedly  in  her  trim,  white  iron  bed; 
the  walls,  as  in  all  the  Island  houses,  were  clean,  plas- 
ter white;  through  the  fresh,  bright  flowers  and  fruit 
of  the  English  chintz  that  hung  at  the  windows  the 
light  glowed  as  through  stained  glass. 

It  was  not  quite  six  o'clock  and  no  one  was  stirring  in 
the  house.  She  rose  quietly,  slipped  on  a  loose  robe  of 
rough  toweling,  stepped  into  heavy  Japanese  slippers  of 
woven  straw,  and  pulled  a  rubber  bathing  cap  close  over 
her  bundled  hair.  Then  she  crept  softly  down  the  stairs, 
not  to  waken  Card,  whose  room  was  on  the  ground  floor, 
gently  unlocked  the  door  and  walked  down  the  little 
crushed-shell  path  to  the  beach.  She  might  have  been 
the  only  living  soul  on  the  Island. 

On  this  side  the  big  breakers  combed  in,  hissing  and 
creaming,  on  a  beach  as  smooth  as  velvet,  but  into  the 
curve  of  a  tiny  bay,  rock-encircled,  a  few  paces  to  the 
right,  only  smooth  green  water  flowed,  making  a  natural 
pool,  and  here  Evelyn  dropped  her  clothes  and  plunged 
in  a  fine,  clean  dive.  Under  the  rich-colored  water  her 
flesh  gleamed  like  pearl;  she  and  a  white  gull  poised 

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rabove  her  were  the  only  things  that  moved  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see.  A  strange  capacity  for  solitude  was 
growing  in  her;  like  all  people  who  have  long  been  de- 
pendent upon  the  whims  of  others  for  their  few,  precious 
hours  alone,  she  had  learned  to  value  these  oases  of  free- 
dom, and  now,  when  she  took  so  seriously  her  duties  of 
attendance  and  instruction,  the  great  spaces  of  sky  and 
sea  gave  her  back  to  herself  again,  and  her  mind  ranged 
in  wide,  swooping  flights  of  fancy;  vague  pictures  of 
white  peaks  against  the  blue ;  full  English  rivers  lapping 
the  meadow  sides;  burnt  cliffs  of  Spain;  white  walls 
among  the  lemon  trees.  As  she  swam,  with  a  long, 
powerful  overhand  stroke,  she  sang  softly  to  herself, 
broken  bits  of  tune  with  no  name. 

She  was  browned,  broader  already  in  the  shoulder, 
deeper  of  chest.  As  she  walked,  with  a  long,  swinging 
stride,  up  to  the  glistening  white  house,  tangled  in  climb- 
ing roses  and  bougainvillea,  she  would  have  seemed  a 
larger  woman  to  anyone  who  had  met  her  three  months 
ago.  She  tossed  her  shoulders  a  little,  from  sheer  joy 
of  motion,  as  her  father  had  tossed  his  in  his  rolling 
sailor  days. 

A  little  brown  Japanese,  airing  and  dusting  the  lower 
floor,  bowed  gravely  to  her  as  she  slipped  up  the  stairs ;  a 
bowl  of  fresh  roses  on  her  dressing-table  showed  that 
Ukada  had  begun  his  day.  She  dressed  in  a  leisurely 
tingle,  her  skin  like  glowing  velvet;  the  odor  of  new- 
made  coffee  floating  up  to  her  nostrils  was  a  very  nectar. 
All  in  white,  from  the  crisp  linen  neck-frill  to  the  pipe- 
clayed shoes,  she  thrust  a  rosebud  through  her  belt  and 
sauntered  down  to  the  veranda.  Card  was  already  there. 
Except  for  the  wheels  of  his  chair,  no  one  would  have 
guessed  that  anything  but  a  pleasant  morning  laziness 

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kept  him  in  it.  A  stranger  might  have  noticed,  perhaps, 
that  the  long,  shapely  legs  in  the  snowy  duck  trousers 
never  crossed,  one  over  the  other ;  that  the  slender,  high- 
arched  feet,  noticeably  small  for  a  man  of  his  height, 
never  stirred  in  their  buckskin  tennis  shoes.  But  that 
was  all.  His  body  moved  easily  and  strongly ;  he  twisted 
about,  pointed  to  this  and  that,  propelled  himself  deftly 
from  one  table  to  another,  anticipating  her  wants  of 
magazine  or  embroidery  or  portfolio  with  wonderful 
quickness.  The  rug  over  his  knees,  a  habit  of  years,  in- 
sisted upon  by  his  broken-hearted  father,  who  had  been 
exasperated  by  the  sight  of  the  motionless  limbs,  had 
been  as  a  matter  of  course  retained  until  they  reached 
the  Island.  But  in  the  second  week  of  their  habitation, 
when  the  chintzes  were  up,  the  few  rugs  settled  in  their 
places,  and  the  light,  strong  wicker  furniture  that  filled 
the  house  adjusted  to  their  comfort,  he  had  appeared 
in  the  morning  without  the  light  crash  cover  that  Swen- 
son  was  accustomed  to  throw  over  him  just  as  he  left  his 
room. 

"He  says  he  don't  see  as  I  need  t'  wear  nothin'  t'  all, 
without  you  say  so,"  Card  explained  shyly. 

Evelyn  had  repressed  the  little  inevitable  shudder  that 
always  attacked  her,  when  such  uncouth  phrases  issued 
from  his  mouth.  She  could  not  accustom  herself ;  it  was 
too  incredible.  This  courtly  don  (he  looked  curiously 
Elizabethan  with  his  curly  pointed  beard,  his  skin  dark 
against  the  uncreased  white  of  his  Norfolk  coat  of  linen), 
this  grave  gentleman  with  the  tiny  blue  flower  at  his 
buttonhole  and  the  quaint  seal  ring  that  suited  so  well 
his  supple,  slender  hand — he  should  have  talked  like 
Raleigh!  Indeed,  there  was  something  of  the  flavor  of 
the  sixteenth  century  seaman  about  him  now ;  his  portrait 

134 


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painted  as  some  roving  buccaneer  would  not  have  seemed 
out  of  keeping. 

"  'Swenson  sees  no  reason  why  I  should  use  the  rug, 
if  you  don't  object/  "  she  corrected  quietly,  and  he  had 
repeated  her  sentence  with  the  docility  of  a  good  child. 

Ukada  drew  up  the  round  wicker  table,  threw  a  snowy 
cloth  over  it,  adjusted  to  the  exact  center  the  spray  of 
pink  roses  in  its  clear  glass  bowl,  and  darted  forth  for 
his  tray.  Coffee,  honey-comb,  brown  rolls  and  small, 
creamy  eggs — he  laid  them  out  carefully,  in  accordance 
with  his  decorative  scheme,  then  drew  out  Evelyn's  chair. 
Card  sent  himself  with  a  deft  turn  of  the  wheels  to  his 
place  opposite  and  began  to  peel  (it  was  one  of  his 
pleasures)  the  big  peaches  with  which  Evelyn  delighted 
to  break  her  fast.  The  breakfast  service  was  of  rich 
Canton  blue ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  eyes  were  filled  to 
the  brim  with  blue  everywhere  she  looked — sky,  sea,  the 
scarf  at  her  husband's  bronze  throat,  the  platter  that  of- 
fered their  delicious  food.  She  had  a  great,  healthy 
capacity  for  enjoyment,  and  this  breakfast  service  was 
not  one  of  her  least  pleasures ;  for  years  she  had  wanted 
to  eat  breakfast  from  Canton  blue  ware — and  now,  here 
was  just  what  she  had  wanted!  Bleeckpits  boasted  a 
thousand-piece  set  of  white  and  gold  china,  heavily  mon- 
ogrammed,  and  one  of  the  ridiculous  petty  annoyances 
of  her  eight  years  there  had  been  that  unending  monot- 
ony of  white.  Now  she  took  a  childish  joy  in  the  deep 
blue  of  her  morning  coffee  cup,  the  brilliant  reds  and 
greens  and  yellows  of  the  cheery  Austrian  ware  of  their 
luncheon  service,  the  faded  mauve  and  sage  of  the  old 
"Indian  Tree"  pattern  that  recalled  the  dinner  plates  her 
father  had  brought  back  from  one  of  his  voyages  when 
she  was  a  child. 

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Since  the  Oscar  Wilde  aestheticism  of  the  '8o's,  when 
Cousin  Jay  Bleeck  had  conscientiously  done  over  the 
house  in  a  series  of  tan  and  olive  vistas,  nothing  had 
broken  the  stretches  of  old  gold  and  faded  bilious  green 
of  the  portieres  and  velvet  settees ;  and  Evelyn's  con- 
tented eyes  drank  delight  from  every  cushion  and  cur- 
tain of  cheery  English  chintz,  every  dahlia  and  passion 
flower  and  climbing  rose  and  ivy  that  glowed  against 
.her  milky  walls. 

What  an  inspiration  this  Bermuda  journey  had  been! 
How  she  blessed  the  day  (the  last  of  those  days  in  the 
Palmer  camp)  when,  even  while  talking  amiably  with 
Mrs.  La  Valle  of  that  lady's  coming  winter  in  Egypt,  a 
mention  of  the  white  stucco  villas,  flashing  against  the 
Mediterranean  green,  had  thrown  like  a  searchlight  into 
her  mind  the  picture  of  an  old,  deserted  house  far  away 
from  the  tourist's  stamping  grounds,  nestled  white  among 
its  vines  and  glossy  shrubs  within  sight  and  sound  of 
the  pounding  breakers  of  an  empty  beach. 

A  sudden  bronchitis  had  driven  Cousin  Sue  to  one  of 
her  infrequent  moves  from  Bleeckpits,  and  they  had 
landed  in  Bermuda  at  the  height  of  the  season,  deep  in  the 
mourning  so  dear  to  old  Miss  Bleeck.  Her  brother,  Jay, 
had  finally  gone  to  what  was  certainly  the  "great  release" 
for  his  family  if  not  for  himself,  and  Cousin  Sue's  tenets 
as  to  the  strictness  of  first  mourning  precluded  even  the 
mild  dissipation  of  luncheon  parties  in  the  big  hotel.  So 
.all  day  long  Evelyn  had  crocheted  and  embroidered  and 
read  aloud  and  written  letters  and  taken  temperatures 
and  labored  at  one  of  those  elaborate  systems  of  cross- 
indexed  house-accounts  that  beguile  the  very  rich  into  a 
sense  of  business  efficiency.  Tennis  and  dancing  came 
equally  under  Cousin  Sue's  ban  (it  had  devolved  upon 

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Evelyn  to  indicate  to  the  world  the  extent  of  her  kins- 
woman's affliction)  and  so  for  exercise  and  relaxation 
she  had  walked,  a  slim,  black  figure,  up  and  down  and 
across  the  sunny  little  island  from  Old  Paget  to  Ireland 
Island,  from  Kettle  Point  to  St.  George's.  On  one  of 
these  lonely  strolls  she  had  followed  what  seemed  a 
deserted  cart  track,  wound  through  one  of  the  little  stone 
gullies  that  give  such  a  foreign,  picturesque  air  to  the 
place,  pressed  herself  between  the  stiff  foliage  of  a  high 
hibiscus  hedge  and  burst  upon  a  sleepy,  lovely  bungalow 
drenched  in  flowering  vines,  broad  of  eave,  porticoed  like 
a  tiny  Greek  temple.  The  approach  to  it,  a  path  of 
pounded  shell,  was  completely  overgrown  with  sprawling 
creepers;  partridge-berry  thrust  itself  over  the  veranda 
steps ;  a  rioting  bougainvillea,  pink  and  lilac,  shut  out  the 
windows  on  the  ground  floor.  It  looked  like  the  palace 
of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  a  very  haunt  of  faery.  She  had 
peered  into  the  windows,  but  only  a  few  bits  of  dusty 
furniture,  a  few  damp  and  yellowed  hangings,  a  few 
faded  pictures  askew  upon  the  walls,  gave  sign  that  life 
had  passed  there.  The  whole  place  dreamed  in  the  sun. 
How  she  had  longed  to  clean  and  furnish  it  and  live 
there,  alone,  away  from  the  dull,  crowded  hotel!  She 
had  inquired  the  name  of  the  place,  and  often  walked  to 
it.  It  had  been  an  easy  matter  to  cable  for  it  from  Can- 
ada, select  a  few  packing-cases  of  necessaries  there,  and 
engage  the  pair  of  beady-eyed  Japanese  who  managed 
everything  about  the  establishment  between  them.  They 
spoke  barely  enough  English  to  have  made  their  engage- 
ment possible ;  there  was  not  a  woman  in  the  house.  No 
one  came  near  them,  not  even  the  tradesmen,  for  every 
morning  Ukada  mounted  his  bicycle  and  sped  to  the  town, 
returning  with  a  great  hamper  of  his  various  needs 

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strapped  to  his  handle-bar;  and  the  few  English  who 
called,  curious  to  know  what  could  have  brought  anyone 
to  such  a  lonely  spot  in  this,  the  dead  season,  were  met 
by  a  courteous  but  reserved  lady,  herself  in  deep  black, 
who  spoke  of  her  husband's  recent  mourning  and  un- 
fortunate confinement  to  his  invalid's  chair  in  a  manner 
that  explained  only  too  adequately  her  disinclination  for 
any  form  of  social  exchange.  In  one  or  two  cases  Evelyn 
had  been  sincerely  sorry,  but  she  had  set  herself  to  her 
task  in  what  she  believed  to  be  the  best  way,  and  for 
that  way  she  considered  solitude  and  privacy  absolutely 
necessary. 

This  morning  the  routine  of  their  day  began  as  usual. 
Card  opened  the  newspaper,  and  read  aloud  the  articles 
she  had  marked.  At  the  close  of  each  she  discussed  it 
with  him:  a  bit  of  European  politics,  the  last  startling 
mystery,  the  newest  aeroplane  achievements,  important 
decisions  of  the  courts.  She  had  at  first  essayed  to  dip 
into  music,  literature,  the  drama.  But  the  references, 
the  implications  were  so  meaningless  to  him  that  she  gave 
up  the  very  subjects  that  she  would  have  supposed  would 
prove  the  most  fruitful.  What  he  most  enjoyed  was  the 
hour  they  gave  to  maps.  From  travel  and  motoring  mag- 
azines they  made  together  detailed  and  comprehensive 
journeyings  over  Europe,  and  on  the  slight  basis  of  Pere 
Antoine's  early  lessons  in  history  she  reared  with  infinite 
patience  the  structure  of  the  great  past. 

It  was  not  easy,  for  his  mind  was  more  contemplative 
than  curious.  It  was  in  many  ways  as  empty  as  a  child's, 
but  it  was  not  so  avid  of  information.  Instinctively  he 
ranged  all  that  came  to  his  mind  into  a  few  broad  classi- 
fications, related  it  to  such  of  the  great  truths  of  life  as 
he  could,  and  dismissed  it.  He  still  spent  hours,  as  he 

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must  have  spent  them  in  his  woods,  in  a  dream  of  silence, 
lost  in  what  might  have  been  definite  mental  effort,  but 
was  more  likely,  Evelyn  thought,  to  be  placid  revery. 

She  realized  that  she  had  confounded  inexperience 
with  youth,  that  Card's  was  a  mind  as  fixed,  in  its  way, 
as  her  own,  and  she  began  to  wonder  how  the  poor,  eager 
immigrants  of  whom  she  had  so  often  read  were  able  to 
go  into  schools  with  little  children  and  learn  with  them: 
she  was  sure  her  husband  could  not  have  done  so. 

His  was  the  mind,  essentially,  of  a  mystic.  This  she 
could  not  recognize,  for  the  simple  reason  that  she  had 
never  encountered  such  a  mind  and  had  herself  no  com- 
prehension of  it.  Her  own  intelligence  was  clear  and 
practical ;  in  her,  as  in  so  many  women  of  her  generation 
and  nationality,  the  religious  instinct  was  entirely  lacking. 
It  was  not,  as  in  the  case  of  her  father's  generation,  that 
she  had  "lost  her  belief,"  as  they  used  to  say:  she  had 
never  had  any  belief  to  lose.  She  had  been  confirmed  at 
the  proper  time,  with  the  proper  girls,  by  the  proper 
bishop;  her  chief  recollection  of  the  rite  concerned  her 
mother's  tearful  gratitude  to  the  thoughtful  cousin  (Jay 
Bleeck  had  happened  to  think  of  it  between  two  hands  of 
bridge  at  the  club)  who  provided  her  pretty  white  dress 
and  veil. 

But  she  had  never  before  intimately  known  anyone  in 
whose  life  dogmatic,  revealed  religion  was  the  vital  prin- 
ciple, and  she  was  continually  amazed  at  the  poise  and 
placidity  which  this  conferred.  She  had  gone  to  Mass 
with  him  and  Swenson  (himself  a  good  Catholic)  in 
Canada,  and  had  been  enormously  impressed  by  the  re- 
spectful interest  of  the  other  communicants  when  Swen- 
son wheeled  him  to  the  chancel  rail.  Priest,  deacons  and 
altar  boys  had  been  more  than  a  little  touched,  it  was 

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quite  clear,  by  this  big,  devout  fellow,  whose  bent  head 
expressed  so  plainly  the  abasement  his  knees  could  not 
show  his  Maker.  The  sense  of  being  conspicuous,  awk- 
ward, troublesome,  with  which  her  self-consciousness 
could  not  but  have  afflicted  her,  in  his  place,  was  so  utter- 
ly lacking  in  him  and  the  Swede;  they  presented  them- 
selves so  simply  and  were  so  simply  accepted  by  all  in 
the  church,  that  some  little  notion  of  the  grace  and  del- 
icacy that  Protestantism  has  cleared  away  with  its  other 
reforms,  came  to  her,  and  she  sighed  a  little  wistfully,  as 
one  sighs  at  happy  children. 

To-day  the  lesson  period  was  short ;  it  was  the  feast  of 
the  nativity  of  the  Virgin,  and  Card  and  Swenson  were 
to  go  to  the  little  church  for  Mass.  It  seemed  a  long 
distance  for  the  Swede  to  wheel  his  master,  but  the  roads 
were  perfect — the  native  Bermudians  flashed  everywhere 
on  their  bicycles  over  the  glistening,  level  surfaces,  and 
since  she  had  learned  that  the  priest  was  a  Belgian,  only 
too  delighted  to  use  his  French,  she  had  no  scruples 
against  their  regular  attendance.  To-day,  feeling  rest- 
less and  in  want  of  exercise,  she  volunteered  to  go  with 
them,  and  they  started  off  in  the  full  heat  of  the  early 
September  weather. 

Except  for  Father  Vellac,  who  dined  with  them  nearly 
every  Sunday,  she  had,  literally,  associated  with  nobody 
for  three  months,  and  though  she  did  not  understand  it, 
she  was  beginning  to  chafe  a  little  at  this  lack  of  com- 
panionship. It  was  not  that  she  wanted  gayety — she  was 
too  grateful  for  the  assured  future,  too  sensible  of  the 
comfort  of  being  her  own  mistress  in  her  own  house,  too 
conscious  of  her  own  physical  expansion  in  this  lovely 
out-of-door  life,  not  to  be  willing  to  pay  the  price.  But 
if  she  could  only  have  had  one  friend,  one  confidant, 

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somebody  to  plan  with !  She  wished  almost  that  she  had 
yielded  to  a  sudden  desire  and  sent  for  Georgie  Stuyvers 
— Georgie's  letter  had  been  so  amusing! — but  they  were 
abroad,  all  of  them,  Nellie  and  Christine,  and  the  rest, 
even  old  Cousin  Georgianna  had  started  up,  suddenly, 
and  had  herself  and  her  new  companion  conveyed  to 
Carlsbad.  What  a  chance  Evelyn  would  have  thought  it, 
once! 

If  Georgie  had  been  here  the  child  could  have  had 
some  glorious  dances :  a  battleship  had  just  put  in.  The 
season  and  its  informality  would  have  allowed,  at  least, 
discreet  chaperoning,  Evelyn  considered,  even  to  her 
mourning. 

Swenson  turned  into  the  main  road  that  would  lead 
them  to  the  little  church,  and  she  realized,  suddenly,  that 
she  did  not  care  to  go  with  them.  The  day  was  too 
beautiful,  the  air  too  fresh,  to  spoil  with  incense. 

"I  will  walk  off  to  the  beach,  I  think,"  she  said,  "and 
don't  hurry  for  lunch,  Swenson,  we'll  have  it  late." 

She  saw  them  round  the  turn  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief, 
even  as  she  smiled  as  she  thought  of  their  silent  journey- 
ings.  They  were  probably  the  two  most  silent  men  on  the 
island  of  Bermuda.  And  their  silence  was  of  the  same 
sort:  placid,  unconscious,  curiously  infectious.  Her  life 
had  necessitated  a  constant  exercise  of  useful  small-talk, 
cheery,  sympathetic,  well  informed.  But  in  these  three 
months,  far  from  winning  her  husband  to  share  in  this 
habit,  she  was  beginning  to  see  that  she  was  more  likely 
to  slip  into  his  own  ways  of  quiet  revery.  The  morning 
lessons,  as  to  which  she  had  taken  her  own  competence 
for  granted,  were  not  progressing,  she  was  forced  to 
admit,  as  quickly  or  as  well  as  she  had  planned.  Card 
was  obedient,  friendly,  and  not  unwilling;  he  corrected 

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himself  tirelessly,  and  committed,  she  was  sure,  fewer 
solecisms  in  his  daily  speech.  But  he  was  not  interested, 
his  memory  for  isolated  facts  and  rules  was  distinctly 
poor,  and  his  disconcerting  method  of  reducing  every- 
thing to  philosophical  first  principles,  his  gentle,  "But 
why?"  forced  her  to  fall  back  on  her  own  hastily  avowed 
ignorance.  Too  late  she  regretted  that  she  had  not  ap- 
plied herself  more  eagerly  to  her  own  lesson  books.  She 
wondered  if  her  scheme  had  been  well  thought  out,  if  her 
textbooks  were  well  chosen;  she  began  to  wish  she  had 
consulted  with  someone,  some  professor,  perhaps,  before 
she  left  Canada.  It  might  be  Pere  Antoine  could  have 
helped  her  .  .  . 

Lost  in  thought  she  pushed  her  way  through  the  ankle- 
deep  sand  of  the  great,  empty  beach,  and  suddenly,  at  a 
vaguely  familiar  bluff  above  her  head,  she  began  to  laugh, 
as  the  memory  it  brought  with  it  flashed  across  her  mind. 

She  had  been  walking  alone,  just  as  now,  along  the 
silent  beach  and,  stooping  to  struggle  with  an  unruly 
garter,  she  had  looked  straight  into  a  laughing  pair  of 
eyes,  not  three  yards  away.  Close  to  them  her  shifting 
glance  caught  another  pair,  and  another,  and  yet  another 
— a  row  of  laughing  little  men  stretched  flat  on  their 
stomachs  on  the  sand,  dressed  in  khaki  so  exactly  sand 
color  that  she  had  never  noticed  them !  Even  as  she 
gasped  at  them  a  deep  boom  that  was  not  the  regular 
boom  of  the  surf  shook  the  air,  and  a  detachment  of 
scurrying  figures  dragging  a  small  cannon  appeared  over 
the  crest  of  the  bluff.  For  a  moment  real  terror  turned 
her  pale,  and  then  common  sense  assured  her  that  these 
could  be  neither  pirates  nor  murderers,  but  must  be  the 
resident  English  troops  at  practice  maneuvers.  She  had 
blundered,  then  as  now,  by  a  side  path,  into  their  working 

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territory,  and  stood  utterly  confused  in  the  midst  of  the 
pretense  of  war  that  occupied  them  so  many  hours  a 
week. 

Each  attempt  at  escape  from  them  proved  perfectly 
useless ;  they  seemed  to  spring  up  like  ants  at  every  step. 
Another  roar  from  the  cannon  shook  her  nerves,  and  she 
ran  blindly  up  the  bluff  and  dropped,  panting,  behind  its 
shelter,  fairly  falling  upon  a  solitary  khaki-clad  figure 
with  a  small  spy-glass  and  note-book,  whose  smile,  behind 
his  twinkling  goggles,  was  as  cordial  as  it  was  amused. 

"It's  quite  all  right,  quite !"  he  assured  her  as  she  stam- 
mered incoherent  apologies.  "Sit  down.  This  is  a  cap- 
ital spot — I'm  'observing,'  you  see — ah,  there — there! 
He's  got  'em — the  beggars !  That's  what  cavalry  would 
have  done  for  you !  I  tell  you,  without  cavalry  there's  no 
use  even  considering  .  .  .  how  you  can  question  for  a 
moment  the  immediate  necessity  for  more  horses — good 
God,  he's  throwing  his  men  away  like  flies,  there !  And 
all  preventable — you  don't  doubt  it  was  preventable?" 

His  intense,  slender  figure  whirled  round  upon  her 
with  a  comical  absent-mindedness:  she  felt  perfectly  at 
ease  with  him,  as  one  does  always  with  absent-minded 
people. 

When  she  had  quite  got  her  breath  he  offered  to  con- 
duct her  back  by  the  most  sheltered  route,  as  the  best 
of  it  was  over  now,  and  his  contention  as  to  cavalry 
absolutely  proved.  He  was  a  retired  naval  officer,  ad- 
mitted by  courtesy  to  these  observations,  which  were  part 
of  the  material  on  which  his  present  work,  "a  book  of 
sorts,"  was  based.  As  they  picked  their  way  through 
the  silent,  hurrying  "Tommies,"  respectfully  climbing  a 
large  rock  to  leave  the  way  clear  for  the  mules  that  drew 
the  large  gun,  turning  back  to  avoid  the  ambulance  that 


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clattered  along  in  the  rear,  his  cheerful,  steady  conversa- 
tion changed  insensibly  to  more  personal  issues,  and  her 
growing  curiosity  as  to  why  a  man  so  enthusiastic  and 
young — for  he  could  not  be  beyond  the  early  thirties — 
should  have  left  the  Service  bade  fair  to  be  satisfied. 

Lieutenant  Hugh  Finister  was  one  of  those  born  re- 
formers and  visionaries  who  fulfil  their  destinies  eter- 
nally at  loggerheads  with  those  on  whom  their  destinies 
depend.  Adored  by  his  men,  he  was  distrusted  by  his 
superior  officers,  who  continually  promoted  others  over 
his  head,  frankly  doubtful  of  his  schemes  for  the  reform 
of  a  Service  he  loved  but  never  ceased  to  criticize.  Par- 
ticularly did  the  Powers  that  be  object  to  his  theories  as 
to  the  education  of  the  enlisted  men,  and  one  Admiral 
had  openly  stated  that  for  his  part  he  preferred  to  see 
the  navy  filled  with  sailormen,  not  first  wranglers !  When 
it  came  to  the  point  of  running  a  night  school  on  an 
armored  cruiser  of  the  first  class,  said  Sir  Thomas,  he 
should  suggest  that  any  officer  who  regarded  such  a  per- 
formance as  of  prime  importance  should  transfer  his 
energies  to  some  other  and  more  appropriate  branch  of 
His  Majesty's  service.  Lieutenant  Finister's  influential 
relatives,  worried  beyond  the  endurance  point  over  their 
talented  but  impractical  kinsman's  vagaries,  had,  accord- 
ingly, combined  to  create  for  him  an  anomalous  and 
vaguely  defined  office  in  connection  with  the  Admiralty 
at  Bermuda,  and  in  this  lazy  little  backwater  of  the  em- 
pire he  had  filled  in  the  long  spaces  of  his  semi-consular 
duties  with  the  enthusiastic  direction  of  the  barracks 
school  for  the  children  of  the  soldiers  on  the  Island, 
where  he  had  produced  such  remarkable  results  as  to 
justify  Sir  Thomas'  criticism  that  he  should  have  been  a 
schoolmaster  and  not  an  officer. 

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Amused  and  really  interested  by  his  enthusiasm,  Eve- 
lyn had  readily  agreed  to  go  with  him  to  his  school  and 
had  listened  gravely  to  his  pig-tailed  girls  and  snub-nosed 
boys,  and  heard  them  sing  part-songs  and  recite  poems, 
had  even  read  their  "compositions,"  upon  which  she  was 
honestly  able  to  congratulate  their  teacher,  an  earnest 
non-commissioned  officer,  the  adoring  slave,  evidently,  of 
her  new  friend. 

For  he  was  a  friend,  though  she  saw  him  but  twice  or 
thrice  at  most.  Under  cover  of  procuring  interesting 
news  for  Cousin  Sue  she  had  visited  the  barracks  school 
again  and  they  had  walked  through  the  quarters — it  was 
easy  to  see  that,  like  many  fanatics,  he  was  loved  of  the 
common  people.  He  was  the  only  acquaintance  she  left 
behind  when  the  short  visit  was  over,  and  she  was  none 
the  less  pleased  with  his  parting  gift  sent  to  the  little 
steamer,  that  it  was  not  fruit  nor  flowers,  but  a  little 
pamphlet  on  the  results  of  education  upon  the  morale  and 
personnel  of  the  British  seaman! 

To-day,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  she  thought  of  Hugh 
Fillister,  and  inquired  of  Father  Vellac,  at  luncheon  that 
day,  if  he  were  still  in  Hamilton.  The  priest,  who, 
through  his  crony,  the  regimental  chaplain,  was  in  close 
touch  with  all  army  interests,  was  able  to  assure  her  that 
he  had  spoken  with  Captain  Finister  only  the  day  be- 
fore; that  he  was  still  laboring  with  his  school  children, 
though  he  had  received  a  recent  rebuff  from  headquarters 
in  his  attempt  at  applying  his  famous  system  of  educa- 
tion to  the  enlisted  men. 

"Which  is  a  pity,"  the  priest  added  quietly,  "for  he  is 
a  good  man  as  well  as  a  clever  one.  I  am  not  so  sure 
that  his  ideas  are  altogether  to  be  laughed  at  either, 
myself,  madame." 

145 


Father  Vellac  let  drop  the  fact  that  Finister  spoke 
French  easily,  and  this  removed  her  only  reason  for  not 
asking  him  to  come  to  see  her:  it  was  agreed  that  he 
should  be  invited  to  dine  very  shortly. 

Evelyn  would  have  given  a  great  deal,  as  the  phrase 
goes,  to  know  just  what  the  quiet  Belgian  thought  of 
their  menage  in  general  and  of  her  husband  in  particular. 
Their  arrival  in  Bermuda  was  evidently  a  godsend  to 
him ;  the  weekly  luncheon,  Card's  generous  contributions 
to  his  little  church,  the  hours  of  conversation  with  this 
charming  if  reserved  American  lady,  could  not  fail  to 
make  an  oasis  in  the  desert  of  his  monotonous  life.  Did 
he  realize  that  her  husband  was  unlike  other  men,  she 
wondered?  How  much  of  this  necessarily  came  to  the 
surface  in  the  confessional?  And  what,  for  that  matter, 
could  Card  have  to  confess  ?  What  were  his  sins  ?  She 
was  continually  forced  back  upon  the  constant  reminder 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  his  mind.  Dependent  upon  her 
as  he  was  for  every  event  now  of  his  life,  he  guarded 
intact  the  fortress  of  his  personality;  they  were  essen- 
tially no  nearer  each  other  than  on  that  day  when  she 
had  burst  in  upon  his  lonely  hut  and  uttered  that  amazing 
sentence  of  her  life: 

"I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  would  like  to  marry  me !" 


XII 


MOTHER!"  shrieked  Georgie  Stuyvers,  staring 
at  the  Herald.  "Mother!  Is  our  Mr.  Vroo- 
man  just  James,  or  James  K.  ?" 

"James,"  said  Cousin  Jane  decidedly.  "The  James 
K.'s  are  no  connection  whatever.  Why  ?  He  isn't — noth- 
ing has  happened  to  him,  I  hope?" 

"Gracious,  no !    Only  he's  here." 

"Really?    Here— in  the  hotel?" 

"No,  only  in  Paris.  Got  here  yesterday.  Do  get  hold 
of  him,  won't  you,  mum?  I'm  crazy  to  hear  about  Cousin 
Evie's  man!" 

"I'll  telegraph  directly,"  said  Cousin  Jane,  moved  from 
her  usual  after-luncheon  apathy.  "Does  Rita  know,  I 
wonder?  He  always  stays  at  that  little  French  hotel — 
that  funny  old  one  .  .  .  what  is  it,  now?  Ask  Aunt 
Nelly  before  she  gets  out  to  her  fitting,  dear." 

"Oh,  if  Aunt  Nelly  has  to  be  here  when  he  comes  .  .  ." 
Georgie  murmured  discontentedly,  "then  we'll  all  be  man- 
aged to  death  and  nobody  can  get  a  word  in  edgewise !" 

"How  unreasonable  you  are,  Georgie,  about  your  Aunt 
Nelly !  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  without 
her.  When  you  consider  that  Rita  was  perfectly  deter- 
mined to  send  Evelyn  that  trumpery  little  pin,  in  spite  of 
all  your  Uncle  Vandy  could  say,  just  because  nobody  had 
ever  heard  of  Mr.  Card,  and  then  he  turns  out  to  be  a 

multi-millionaire " 

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"Only  a  million  and  a  half,  mum,"  Georgia  corrected 
placidly. 

"Only!  Heavens,  I  wish  we  had  a  million  and  a  half — 
or  half  of  it,  child !  I  only  hope  your  Cousin  Georgianna 
will  remember  what  Sue  did  for  little  Susan  .  .  .  it's  a 
frightful  year,  Georgie,  and  I  might  just  as  well  tell  you 
now  as  any  time  that  from  what  Cousin  Stuy  says  about 
this  horrid  railroad  business  I  doubt  if  we  get  anything 
like  the  dividends  we  ought,  and  something's  the  matter 
with  the  gas-stock,  too.  Christine  may  stay  in  the  coun- 
try, she  says,  and " 

"Now,  mother,  there's  no  use  in  the  world  talking  coun- 
try, so  don't  begin!  How  did  Aunt  Nellie  know  about 
the  million  and  a  half?" 

Mrs.  Stuyvers  settled  down  to  one  of  the  rambling 
histories  that  her  relatives  had  learned  not  to  slight  ut- 
terly, because  of  her  disconcerting  manner  of  introducing 
important  facts  here  and  there  throughout  her  discourse, 
as  a  clever  cook  distributes  the  plums  through  her  cake. 

"Why,  my  dear,  that's  your  Aunt  Nelly  all  over !  How 
she  finds  out  these  things  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  ...  I 
saw  Evelyn's  letter  and  it  only  said  that  she  was  marry- 
ing rather  suddenly  a  man  she'd  only  met  this  summer — 
I  suppose  a  friend  of  that  Mrs.  Palmer ;  you  know  Nelly 
told  me  that  the  day  Mrs.  Palmer  met  you  all  in  the 
Ritz  she  spoke  of  the  same  party  being  invited  that  had 
been  together  before  at  her  house.  So  Nelly  guessed,  of 
course,  that  Evelyn  must  have  met  Mr.  Gard  there  then, 
you  see." 

"But  if  she  said  herself  that  she  only  met  him  this 
summer " 

"Oh,  my  dear,  that's  too  absurd ! 

"Imagine  a  sensible  girl  like  Evelyn  .  .  .  Why,  she'd 

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only  been  there  a  fortnight.  And  yet,  of  course,  Annabel 
herself,  Evelyn's  own  mother,  you  know,  my  dear,  look 
what  she  did!  Three  weeks  she'd  known  that  man — it 
was  simply  too  ridiculous !  Of  course  he  had  to  go  off 
with  his  ship — there  was  something  in  that,  and  if  they 
were  to  have  any  honeymoon  at  all  ...  he  was  the  most 
determined  man  that  ever  married  into  our  family,  my 
dear." 

"I  just  remember  Cousin  Annabel,"  said  Georgie 
thoughtfully.  "She  was  always  ill,  wasn't  she?" 

"Frightfully  delicate,  my  dear,  and,  of  course,  always 
upset — imagine  a  husband  like  that,  never  in  any  one 
place !  I  believe,  myself,  that  was  mostly  the  matter  with 
her.  Of  course,  she  had  the  Bleeck  rheumatism  and  the 
Jay  sciatica,  and  they  seemed  to  turn  to  tonsilitis  and 
quinsy,  in  her  case,  and  they  couldn't  afford  the  changes 
of  climate  she  needed.  That  is,  to  live  in  the  way  they'd 
have  had  to  would  have  been  impossible.  But  Captain 
Jaffray  was  very  proud  and  obstinate — in  many  ways 
Evelyn  is  like  him,  /  think." 

"Oh,  mum,  I  don't  think  Evie's  a  bit  proud !" 

"You  are  hardly  in  a  position  to  judge,  my  dear,"  her 
mother  retorted  placidly.  "Your  Aunt  Nelly  and  I  have 
had  some  very  difficult  times  with  Evelyn." 

"I'll  bet  she  had  some  pretty  difficult  times  with  you, 
too!"  her  daughter  murmured  rebelliously,  trusting  un- 
wisely to  a  parental  deafness  that  was  notoriously  capri- 
cious. 

"My  dear,  I  really  must  beg  you " 

"Sorry,  mum.  I'd  no  idea  you  heard  me.  I  only 
meant  that  I  never  could  blame  poor  Evie  about  that 
disgusting  old  Colonel  Perrett.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it 
myself." 

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"Georgia,  you  don't  know  what  you're " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,  mum.  I  knew  all  about  it  at  the  time. 
I  was  seventeen,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Stuyvers  sighed. 

"Evelyn  was  in  a  slightly  different  position  from  yours, 
then,  my  dear,"  she  began  feebly,  but  Georgie  cut  her 
off. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  But  she  certainly  is,  now! 
I  suppose  you'll  all  be  nice  to  her?" 

"Nice  to  her?  My  dear  Georgie,  what  an  extraor- 
dinary mood  you  are  in  to-day !  If  this  Mr.  Card  turns 
out  to  be  at  all  a  possible  person  and,  of  course,  knowing 
Evelyn  as  we  do,  we  know  that  he  must  be  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  you  can't  tell — he  might  eat  with  his  knife !"  Miss 
Stuyvers  drawled. 

"Mr.  Gard  is  an  invalid,  and  has  been  for  years,"  her 
mother  stated  severely,  with  the  air  of  a  person  definitely 
deciding  an  unseemly  controversy.  "That  much  we  know. 
But  I  must  say  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  James  Vroo- 
man.  Of  course,  having  actually  seen  him,  as  James 
Vrooman  has  .  .  .  will  you  answer  that  telephone, 
dear?" 

Georgie  lifted  the  receiver  to  her  ear.  "Here  is  Mr. 
Vrooman  now,"  she  said. 

He  entered  the  pleasant,  flower-filled  little  sitting-room 
with  the  firm,  jaunty  step  that  marked  him,  for  those  who 
knew  him.  His  pearl-gray  spats,  the  black  ribbon  of  his 
eye-glass,  the  impalpable  something  of  his  cutaway  coat — 
was  it  the  binding? — gave  him  his  look  of  the  English 
barrister.  It  was  probably  his  one  little  vanity. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vrooman,"  Georgie  burst  out  irresistibly, 
after  the  necessary  assurances  of  health  and  investments 
had  been  got  over — he  had  served  as  Jane  Stuyvers'  trus- 

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tee  ever  since  her  husband's  death,  and  was  the  only  per- 
son able  to  prevent  the  dangerous  investments  at  whose 
tempting  fires  she  longed  to  singe  her  incompetent  hands 
— "do,  do  tell  us  all  about  Mr.  Card !  How  did  she  meet 
him?  Is  he  nice?  Where  does  he  live?  Are  they  going 
to  be  in  New  York  ?  Did  you  know  him  ?" 

The  lawyer  pursed  a  pair  of  whimsical  lips  at  her. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  send  me  a  blank  form,  Miss 
Georgie,  and  let  me  fill  it  out  at  my  leisure,  as  they  say," 
he  answered. 

"Let  me  see:  'How  did  she  meet  him?'  I  wasn't 
there  when  that  interesting  event  took  place,  so  I  can't 
say.  'Is  he  nice  ?'  Well,  that  depends :  I  suppose  you 
mean  charming.  I  found  him  very  interesting  indeed — 
he's  an  invalid,  you  know.  He's  always  lived  a  very 
retired  and  quiet  life,  necessarily — never  leaves  the 
woods,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"You  mean,  hardly  ever,  don't  you  ?"  Georgie  suggested 
quickly.  "Or  how  could  Evie  have  met  him?" 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  said  hardly  ever,"  he  corrected 
gravely. 

"You  mean  he  has  a  place  there?"  Cousin  Jane  asked 
eagerly. 

"His  father  had  a  very  comfortable  hunting  camp  up 
there,"  said  James  Vrooman,  "and  kept  him  in  it  con- 
stantly." 

"I  suppose  the  air  saved  his  life,"  said  Cousin  Jane 
thoughtfully. 

"Something  like  that,  I  imagine." 

"And  then  his  father  died?"   Georgie  inquired. 

"Then  Mr.  Card,  Senior,  died,"  Vrooman  repeated, 
"and  I,  as  a  sort  of  trustee,  was  called  up  there  to  ex- 
plain, generally,  and  advise  about  his  investments " 


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"Oh !  So  you  did  know  him  all  along !"  cried  Georgie 
triumphantly. 

"That's  what  Nelly  said,"  her  mother  added  thought- 
fully. 

"Really?  How  interesting!"  observed  Mr.  Vrooman, 
polishing  his  glasses  delicately.  "I  wasn't  aware  that  I 
told  Mrs.  Schermer " 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Vrooman !  As  if  anybody  needed  to 
tell  Nelly  Schermer  anything!"  sighed  his  hostess. 

"There's  her  knock,"  Georgie  remarked.  "You  know, 
Aunt  Nelly  always  reminds  me  of  those  birds — what-do- 
you-call-'ems  ? — that  smell  things  and  come  hurrying 
along  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  Georgie !" 

"Well,  mums,  all  the  same,  she  does.  Come  in,  Aunt 
Nelly!" 

Nothing  so  crude  as  direct  questioning  characterized 
Mrs.  Ogden  Schermer's  well-known  attacks.  Vrooman, 
primed  for  a  head-on  collision,  so  to  speak,  in  this  case, 
made  the  inevitable  false  deduction  drawn  by  all  her 
friends,  who  confused  her  frank  statements  of  opinion 
with  a  frankness  of  interrogation  which  she  never  em- 
ployed. Past  mistress  of  the  art  of  eliciting  information 
from  the  very  people  she  appeared  to  instruct,  she  could 
never  have  maintained  her  reputation  for  foresight  and 
infallibility  by  any  less  adroit  and  apparently  effortless 
methods. 

So  her,  "Well,  James  Vrooman,  of  all  people!  I  had 
an  idea  you'd  be  running  over,"  made  its  impression,  even 
though  at  least  two  of  her  audience  were  firmly  if  un- 
reasonably convinced  that  she  had  her  own  means  of 
knowing  precisely  when  he  entered  the  great,  buzzing 
hotel. 

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They  found  themselves  launched  on  a  stream  of  dis- 
cursive chatter  that  led,  apparently,  nowhere.  Jane  at- 
tempted vainly  to  follow  her  kinswoman's  shifting  allu- 
sions that  seemed  always  on  the  point  of  bursting  into 
some  important  disclosure,  only  to  draw  from  themselves 
whatever  information  they  owned  and  then  to  leave  the 
topic  as  lightly  as  it  had  been  broached.  The  necessity 
for  returning  on  account  of  the  Dowager  Jay's  health 
brought  Mrs.  Stuyvers  to  the  point  she  had  privately 
vowed  never  to  open,  and  she  found  herself,  to  her  in- 
tense surprise,  explaining  that  the  disappointment  in  re- 
gard to  Evelyn  Jaffray  had,  in  her  own  opinion,  brought 
on  Cousin  Georgianna's  asthma  again :  didn't  Nelly  agree 
with  her? 

"Oh,  well,"  Nelly  admonished  her  tolerantly,  "you 
could  hardly  expect  Evelyn  to  refuse  Mr.  Card  merely 
to  keep  Cousin  Georgianna  from  having  asthma,  could 
you,  Jane  ?  Really !" 

Jane  bit  her  lip  and  retired  in  good  order. 

"You  do  pick  one  up  so,  Nelly!"  she  complained. 
"James  Vrooman  has  been  telling  us  all  about " 

"Yes,  indeed,  how  interesting,"  Nelly  interrupted, 
yawning  slightly,  while  Vrooman,  with  a  vexed  conscious- 
ness of  being  a  busy  old  gossip,  made  a  slight  annoyed 
gesture. 

"I  suppose  they'll  be  over  here  soon  now?"  she  shot 
at  him  abruptly,  which  unusual  change  of  front,  now  that 
he  was  quite  off  his  guard,  caused  him  to  start  with  real 
surprise. 

"They're  coming,  then?" 

"I  thought  you'd  know,  of  course,"  she  explained.  "I 
only  meant  that  in  Evelyn's  letter  she  said  they'd  prob- 
ably travel  indefinitely  .  .  .  but,  of  course,  you  know." 

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i 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  of  their  plans,"  he  said 
stiffly,  "beyond  the  fact,"  he  added  with  what  to  him  was 
absolutely  necessary  accuracy  of  statement,  "that  they 
are  in  Bermuda  at  present." 

"Bermuda!  Of  all  places  for  September!  Why  it's 
absolutely  off-season,"  Nelly  marveled.  "Doesn't  she 
want  anybody  to  see  him,  then  ?" 

Vrooman  smiled  placidly,  amazed  inwardly  at  woman's 
intuition. 

"Card  is  tied  to  an  invalid's  chair,"  he  said.  "He  finds 
the  climate  wonderfully  suited  to  him,  I  believe,  and  his 
father's  recent  death,  which  he  feels  keenly,  makes  him — 
perhaps  a  little  morbidly — eager  for  just  that  kind  of 
freedom  from  social  pursuit." 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  agreed  absently,  "how  strange  you 
should  have  known  him  so  well !  I  suppose  it  was  really 
through  you " 

"I  had  attended  to  some  matters  for  his  father  many 
years  ago,"  he  corrected  her.  "Card  himself  I  hardly 
know." 

"But  you  know  all  about  him,"  Cousin  Jane  inter- 
posed. "You  approved,  didn't  you,  Mr.  Vrooman?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  began  deliberately,  "yes,  on  the  whole, 
I  did.  Of  course,  to  see  a  fine  woman  like  Miss  Jaffray 
tied  to  a  hopeless  cripple  has  an  unhappy  side,  I  admit,  to 
a  man  who  happens  to  admire  her  as  I  do.  But  his  devo- 
tion to  her  is  great  and  she  certainly  has  chosen  a  very 
interesting  man — a  very  interesting  man,"  he  repeated, 
smiling  as  at  some  recollection. 

"Oh,  tell  us !  Tell  us !"  begged  Georgie.  "Is  he  hand- 
some ?" 

"My  dear,  a  cripple !"  her  mother  warned. 

"He's  not  at  all  bad  looking,"  said  the  lawyer,  "and  I 

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think  you'll  be  surprised  when  you  see  him,  Miss 
Georgie." 

"I  suppose,"  Nelly  suggested,  "he  wanted  Evelyn  to 
speak  the  language  for  him,  traveling,  and  .  .  .  and  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

Again  he  smiled.  Again  he  marveled.  "He  speaks 
most  excellent  French  himself,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
about  his  other  linguistic  powers.  They  seemed  always 
to  speak  it  together." 

"Oh,"  she  murmured,  evidently  surprised.  "Then  he's 
not  one  of  those  lumber-king  sort  of  people?  That's 
what  Ogden  thought — he  brought  one  to  the  house  once. 
He  was  a  Baptist  and  sang  Moody  and  Sankey 
hymns  .  .  ." 

"Mr.  Card  is  a  devout  Catholic,"  said  Vrooman  briefly. 

"Really!  How  interesting.  Now,  really,  Mr.  Vroo- 
man, you  take  a  great  load  off  our  minds,"  murmured 
Cousin  Jane,  but  Nelly  was  before  her. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Jane,  with  what  you  know  of 
Evelyn's  fussiness,  what  can  you  be  thinking?"  she  cried. 

"I  don't  know  any  girl  more  dependent  upon  refinement 
and  detail  than  Evie  Jaffray !  Do  you  see  her  marrying 
a  clod-hopper,  no  matter  what  he  was  worth?  Because 
I  don't.  I'm  not  a  bit  surprised — invalids  always  did  ap- 
peal to  her.  She's  managed  them  all  her  life — look  at 
Susy  Bleeck — and  then  she  was  to  have  gone  to  Cousin 
Georgianna:  she  told  me  herself  she  thought  she  could 
make  her  happy !" 

"Precisely,"  said  James  Vrooman  enigmatically. 

"And  then,  a  wealthy  man  like  that,  with — you  might 
say — almost  too  much  leisure,  for,  of  course,  he  has  no 
business,  and  no  worries,  with  Mr.  Vrooman  the  family 
lawyer — a  man  as  delicate  and  cultivated  as  that,  natu- 

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/ 

rally  a  little  conscious,  with  being  crippled,  and  all  (I 
know  they  get  very  irritable  and  simply  won't  go  out — 
look  at  Ogden's  uncle,  Jane !  He  won't  be  wheeled  into 
the  Metropolitan  till  the  lights  go  down)  why,  you  can 
see  he'd  simply  go  out  of  his  head  over  a  girl  like  Evelyn ! 
Think  what  she'd  be  to  him !" 

"Precisely,"  said  James  Vrooman  again,  and  smiled  to 
himself  in  the  electric  lift. 


XIII 

EVELYN  admitted  to  a  very  definite  curiosity  as  to 
Hugh  Finister.  Something  about  the  man — was 
it  his  utter  difference  from  any  of  the  men  she 
had  ever  met? — had  fixed  him  in  her  mind.  Impractical 
theorist,  dreamer  of  ideals,  he  may  have  seemed  to  his 
fellow  officers,  but  to  her  quick  intuition  he  was  merely  a 
misplaced  worker,  a  talent  wasted  by  the  great  cold- 
blooded machine  he  had  tried  to  vitalize. 

From  his  seat  at  her  right  he,  too,  watched  her  curi- 
ously, trying  to  connect  his  memories  of  the  pale  girl  in 
black,  listening  so  tactfully  to  his  poured  out  enthusi- 
asms ;  with  this  poised  and  vivid  creature,  rosy  under  her 
sea-tan,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  under  darker  hair.  She 
was  just  talkative  enough  to  cover  her  husband's  quiet,  a 
quiet  that  no  one  could  mistake  for  churlishness  or  dis- 
taste for  his  company.  His  eyes  followed  her  every 
movement. 

"Yes,  I  think  that,  too,"  breathed  his  hope  of  pleasing 
her,  his  delight  at  agreeing  with  her. 

"A  plain  love  match,"  said  Finister  to  himself.  "How 
wonderful  women  are!" 

Father  Vellac  talked  for  two,  and  Hugh,  well  accus- 
tomed to  the  priest's  rapid,  gestured  French,  found  his 
host's  grave,  precise  diction  easy  to  follow. 

"Card  speaks  better  French  than  his  wife,"  thought  he, 
"a  little  bookish  and  old-fashioned,  but  essentially  better. 

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A  scholar,  evidently — poor  chap,  he  has  plenty  of  lei- 
sure !" 

Over  the  coffee  he  found  himself  spurred  on  to  more 
story-telling  than  he  had  found  himself  capable  of  since 
midshipman  days  when  his  pig-tailed  sisters  hung  over 
the  nursery  fender,  and  Nurse  herself  dropped  her  stock- 
ing from  the  mending  basket  to  cry, 

"Lawks,  Master  Hugh,  such  doings  give  a  body  a  turn 
—they  do!" 

It  was  the  eager  appeal  in  his  host's  blue  eyes  that  led 
him  on,  the  obvious  delight  in  his  wanderer's  adventures. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Card,  to  endure  my  dread- 
ful slang,"  he  said  apologetically.  "You  see,  I  only  kept 
up  my  French  at  all  by  talking  with  the  second  officer 
while  I  was  on  the  Carthagia,  he  was  half  French  him- 
self— but  it  was  half  argot,  I'm  afraid,  and  I  never  could 
get  him  to  correct  me." 

"But  if  I  may  ask  the  words  I  do  not  know ?" 

The  simplicity  in  the  deep  baritone  voice  struck  a  curi- 
ous chord  of  sympathy  in  the  Englishman's  heart.  He 
warmed  to  his  big,  silent  host  more  and  more. 

"I  suppose  I'd  have  seen  a  great  deal  more,"  he  went 
on  thoughtfully,  "but  I  took  my  men  a  little  more  seri- 
ously than  most,  you  see,  and  I  was  always  trying  to  find 
places  the  men  could  go " 

"Places?  Places  they  could  go?"  Card  repeated 
eagerly.  "What  places?  You  mean  different  churches 
they  could  see — cathedrals  ?" 

"Well  .  .  .  not  quite  that,  perhaps,"  Finister  mur- 
mured, a  little  uncertain  of  how  far  his  host  might  be  in 
earnest.  "That's  going  a  little  strong,  even  for  me.  But 
to  improve  at  all  upon  the  usual  relaxations  of  Jack- 
ashore  .  .  ." 

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"You  cannot  do  it,  mon  ami,"  the  priest  interposed 
quietly. 

"But,  surely,"  Evelyn  began,  and  then  they  paused  as 
by  common  consent  and  glanced  at  Card,  whose  strained, 
intent  gaze  showed  how  hopelessly  he  failed  to  follow 
them. 

"I  can  see,"  Finister  began,  "that  M.  Card's  experi- 
ences have  not  led  him  very  much  among  such  simple, 
untrained  types  as  the  British  A.  B." 

"A.  B.  ?"  the  deep  voice  queried. 

"Able-bodied  seaman,"  Finister  translated.  "You  see, 
he  is  able-bodied — that's  the  trouble.  Nothing  whatever 
has  been  done  with  his  mind,  and  he  is  too  often  a  big, 
good-natured  animal — an  animal  with  a  handful  of  in- 
stincts and  a  taste  for  liquor.  And  yet,  it's  amazing  what 

can  be  done  with  them "  his  thin,  brown  face  lighted 

up  with  enthusiasm. 

"I  used  to  tell  off  a  dozen  of  'em,"  he  dropped  into 
English  unconsciously,  "and  trot  'em  around  with  me — I 
remember  I  ran  them  out  once  to  see  an  old  Buddhist 
temple  at  Amoy,  when  we  were  out  in  China.  They 
cursed  me  rather  thoroughly,  I  fancy,  because  that  wasn't 
exactly  what  they'd  come  ashore  to  see  .  .  ." 

"What  had  they  come  to  see?"  Card  asked  in  Eng- 
lish. 

Finister  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  just  then  the  priest 
looked  at  his  old  silver  watch,  mentioned  the  name  of  an 
ailing  parishioner,  and  slipped  quietly  away.  Evelyn 
walked  out  to  the  hall  with  him  and  returned  to  the 
dining-room  in  time  to  hear  Card's  question, 

"But  what  did  they  want  ?" 

"Surely,  Mr.  Card,  poor  Jacky's  devotion  to  the  softer 
sex  has  come  to  your  attention  ?" 

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Finister  parried,  half  laughing,  half  annoyed  at  such 
persistence. 

"The  softer  sex  .  .  .  the  softer?" 

The  pleasant  baritone,  in  duet  with  another  man's 
voice,  the  English  sound  of  the  sentences,  the  unusual 
character  of  the  little  dinner  party,  confused  Evelyn  for 
a  moment.  For  the  first  time  she  was  thrown  off  her 
guard,  and  spoke  to  her  husband  abruptly,  almost  sharply, 
as  a  much  tried  wife  will  speak  to  an  incurably  absent- 
minded  man. 

"Captain  Finister  means  women,  of  course,"  she  said. 

"Oh,"  he  murmured  thoughtfully,  and  then,  "are  you 
softer  than  I  am?  Is  that  it?" 

Her  house  of  cards  tottered,  collapsed,  and  lay  in  ruins 
all  about  her.  What  folly  to  pretend,  even  for  the  space 
of  a  dinner,  that  they  were  like  other  people,  he  and  she ! 
Here  were  pale,  rosy  candle-shades,  here  were  soft  white 
window  draperies,  here  were  piled  fruits  and  tinted 
glasses  and  pleasant  men  in  milk-white  flannels  smiling 
and  chatting  in  the  most  cultivated  speech  of  Europe  with 
a  bright-eyed  woman  who  smiled  back  at  them  above  her 
bare  white  shoulders  .  .  .  and  yet  it  was  all  a  mocking 
pretense,  a  farce  of  living.  She  was  only  a  teacher,  too 
clumsy  to  have  succeeded  with  her  pupil,  and  this  charm- 
ing little  interior  was  a  mere  stage  manager's  effect,  art 
effect  that  had  failed  with  her  first  audience ! 

Her  eyes  filled  slowly  with  ungovernable  tears;  she 
stared,  speechless,  at  the  flower-stained  stephanotis  vines 
that  curled  about  the  open  window. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Card!  Pray — pray,  don't!"  cried 
Finister.  "It — it  doesn't  matter  in  the  least — I  under- 
stand, I  assure  you !  Believe  me,  it's  only  a  question  of 
time!" 

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Nothing  could  have  brought  her  to  herself  so  swiftly 
as  this  strange  speech.  Unconsciously  she  brushed  at  her 
eyelashes,  flashed  a  questioning  glance  at  him  and  turned 
the  talk  lightly  to  his  travels. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  drop  the  matter  there,  and 
when  Swenson  had  wheeled  his  master  off  to  bed  and  she 
sat  alone  with  her  guest  on  the  broad  veranda  she  faced 
him  frankly  with, 

"Captain  Finister,  what  did  you  mean  when  you  said 
that  you  'understood' — that  it  was  'only  a  question  of 
time'?" 

He  met  her  eyes,  his  own  as  frank  as  hers. 

"Why,  surely,  Mrs.  Card,  it  is  very  plain  ?  Especially 
when  one  has  met  it  before,  as  I  have.  Your  husband's 
condition  is  sad,  but,  as  you  have  undoubtedly  been  told, 
quite  compatible  with  steady  improvement." 

"But — but  what  do  you  suppose  to  be  his  condition?" 
she  persisted. 

"It  is  quite  obvious  that  Mr.  Card,  from  some  shock 
or  illness,  has  lost,  in  great  part,  his  memory,  and  with 
it  some,  or  most,  of  his  general  information,"  he  an- 
swered simply.  "He  is  evidently  a  man  of  great  power 
of  mind,  who  is  at  present  not  in  full  possession  of  that 
power.  I  have  seen  it  before,  and  patience  and  persistence 
on  the  part  of  those  surrounding  him  work  wonders,  I 
assure  you.  You  are  going  the  very  best  way  about  it, 
as,  of  course,  you  know." 

Thought  raced  through  her  mind,  like  a  squirrel  in  a 
cage:  why  not?  why  not?  If  he  thought  this,  so  might 
others.  Would  not  this  be  easier?  Or,  since  her  mind 
rejected  this  almost  instantly,  why  not  let  Hugh  Finister, 
at  least,  believe  it,  and  go  on  with  her  task,  realizing  that 
it  was  not  yet  nearly  done,  hardly  more  than  begun,  in 

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fact,  and  that  she  must  go  on  with  it  alone?  The  time 
was  not  ripe  for  friends,  that  was  all.  Allow  her  guest 
to  believe  this ;  make  no  new  friends,  wait. 

But  even  as  she  thought  this  Card's  face  rose  to  the 
surface  of  her  mind  as  a  sunken  face  rises  to  the  surface 
of  some  deep,  troubled  pool.  His  eyes  seemed  to  search 
hers  and  she  knew  that  not  only  was  it  impossible  that 
she  should  lie  to  him:  she  could  not  tell  this  lie  about 
him.  To  make  him  a  little  more  like  the  people  he  was 
to  meet  in  the  future  was  a  task  that  might  conceivably 
require  a  few  well-bred  evasions,  a  few  reserves  that 
were  no  more  than  the  ordinary  reserves  of  life ;  but  to 
place  his  failure  to  conform  to  conventional  standards 
on  such  grounds  as  Finister's  unconscious  suggestions 
offered  her — no,  she  could  not  do  it. 

And  yet  it  would  have  been  so  easy  .  .  .  how  she  hated 
herself  for  that  swift,  gliding  thought! 

She  turned  her  face  quickly  to  Finister. 

"You  are  quite  mistaken,  Captain  Finister,"  she  said 
quietly.  "My  husband  has  never  had  any  such  shock  or 
illness  as  you  describe." 

He  looked  puzzled.  To  both  of  them  Card's  absurd, 
telltale  little  question  seemed  to  echo  on  the  still,  scented 
air. 

"Then  .  .  .  then "  he  stammered,  embarrassed, 

when  a  light  dawned  upon  him. 

"Why  didn't  you  stop  me — I  was  speaking  English!" 
he  cried.  "How  stupid  of  me,  Mrs.  Card!  I  had  a 
feeling  that  he  was  trying  hard  to  follow  us — it  was 
unpardonable  of  me.  But  surely  he  answered  in 
English?" 

Again  a  swift  temptation  caught  her:  she  felt  be- 
sieged, undermined  on  every  side.  This,  too,  was  pos- 

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sible :  why  not  use  it  ?    France,  Switzerland  .  .  .  people 
could  be  avoided  .  .  . 

But  again  she  saw  his  face;  again  those  honest,  dog- 
like  eyes  compelled  her  own.  She  could  not  lie  away  a 
man's  sanity — could  she  deny  his  country  in  his  name, 
renounce  for  him  his  own  mother  tongue?  She  knew. 
She  could  not. 

"My  husband  is  an  American,"  she  said. 

Her  guest  was  an  Englishman,  and  in  the  face  of  facts 
he  could  not  hope  to  understand,  he  held  his  tongue  and 
waited.  No  babbling  apologies  confused  the  silence  that 
grew  between  them,  no  pretense  of  an  understanding  he 
could  not  possibly  have  had,  annoyed  her.  And  across 
that  waiting  silence  there  flashed  like  lightning  across  the 
waiting  sky  one  of  those  intuitions  that  had  ranked  her 
father  among  the  most  efficient  men  that  ever  served  his 
country's  navy.  "Will  Jaffray's  choice"  had  been  a  catch- 
word for  the  best  man  for  the  place;  his  daughter  had 
perfectly  inherited  that  curious  but  undeniable  capacity. 
The  fact  that  the  man  sitting  so  silent  opposite  her  was 
the  merest  acquaintance  had,  for  her,  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case.  She  saw  his  enthusiasm,  she  felt  his  sincerity, 
she  guessed  his  capacity. 

Rising  suddenly  from  her  low  wicker  chair,  she  stepped 
nearer  to  him  and  stood  before  him,  so  that  when  he 
rose,  the  next  moment,  they  stood  eye  to  eye. 

"Captain  Finister,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to  tell  you 
about  my  husband.  He  is,  as  you  say,  a  man  of  great 
power  of  mind — I  am  sure  of  it.  But  he  is  very  pathetic, 
too,  because  he  has  not  had  the  advantages  that  you  sup- 
pose. I  have  been  trying  to  give  them  to  him,  and  I  do 
not  believe  that  I  am  able  to :  I  need  help.  I  think  you 
are  the  man  to  help  me — will  you?" 

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"I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  count  on  me  ...  abso- 
lutely," he  answered  her,  the  moment  she  ceased  speaking. 

And  neither  then  nor  for  a  year  after  that  did  Hugh 
Finister  realize  that  this  woman,  who  appealed  to  him  as 
keenly  as  her  proposal  appealed  to  his  powers,  was  not  in 
love  with  her  husband! 

He  was  not  an  emotional  man :  his  ardors  were  of  the 
mind  and  the  spirit. 

For  Card,  like  almost  every  man  who  met  him,  he  had 
felt  an  instant  liking.  That  magnificent  physique,  that 
poised  and  placid  personality,  that  crystal  honesty  and 
simplicity,  won  his  heart  as  it  won  every  man's.  It 
would  never  have  occurred  to  him  that  such  details  as 
his  education — or  the  lack  of  it,  his  knowledge  of  the 
world — or  the  lack  of  it,  his  conventional  training — or  the 
lack  of  it,  could  bulk  so  large  to  a  sex  overtrained  to 
detail,  as  to  eclipse  the  normal  relation  of  man  to  woman. 
Himself  an  idealist,  as  impatient  as  he  was  ignorant  of 
the  tiny,  complicated  veil  of  subtleties  and  perverted 
standards  that  wrap  the  eyes  of  women  of  Evelyn's  class 
and  country,  he  saw  only  the  interesting  and  entirely  nat- 
ural appeal  of  a  powerful  personality,  a  little  hampered 
by  a  few  deficiencies,  as  easily  remedied  as  they  were  un- 
usual. In  his  opinion  she  gained  enormously  by  her 
broad,  almost  masculine  grasp  of  the  situation,  her  feel- 
ing for  the  man  who,  though  tied  like  Gulliver  of  old  by 
the  petty,  teasing  threads  of  millions  of  little  drawbacks, 
was  yet  a  giant.  Love  of  women  had  never  plagued 
Hugh;  he  was  as  cool  as  Evelyn.  And  so  such  a  mar- 
riage had  for  him  nothing  tragic,  nothing  even  grotesque ; 
himself,  he  would  gladly  have  married  a  woman  in  a 
wheeled  chair,  if  she  had  been  the  woman  for  him. 

When  he  came  to  them  the  next  morning  and  took  his 

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place  opposite  his  host,  so  suddenly  his  pupil,  Evelyn 
wondered  at  the  lack  of  paraphernalia.  She  had  ex- 
pected, vaguely,  blackboards,  globes,  all  the  evidences  of 
efficiency  that  her  country  has  learned  to  imply  from  the 
magic  phrase  "a  new  system."  But  Hugh  had  only  a 
worn  little  brown  leather  book  in  his  hand. 

"I  have  brought  you  a  new  teacher,  man  ami,"  she 
said.  "Captain  Finister  has  taught  men  before — I  never 
have." 

Card  held  out  his  hand  easily  now.  "I'll  be  glad  to 
learn,"  he  said  simply,  "if  I  can." 

Finister  felt  a  rush  of  something  like  love  itself  for 
the  man.  He  grasped  his  great  hand  and  shook  it 
warmly,  too  much  touched  to  find  his  words  readily. 

"But  I  get  thinking,"  Card  went  on  seriously,  "and 
then  I'm  kind  o'  likely  to  forget." 

Something  kept  her  from  her  usual  quick  correction; 
she  watched  Finister.  He  took  absolutely  no  notice. 

"That's  the  trouble  with  the  schools,"  said  he,  smiling, 
"they  give  the  pupils  no  time  to  think,  mostly.  They 
cram,  cram,  cram.  So  only  the  idlers  and  runaways  get 
any  thinking  done,  as  a  rule.  Later  on  they  are  called 
poets  and  inventors  and  novelists,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing!" 

Evelyn  smiled,  as  at  a  piece  of  wit,  but  Card  consid- 
ered a  moment. 

"I  s'pose  that's  so,"  he  agreed  finally,  and  Hugh 
nodded. 

"It  has  to  be  so,"  he  said. 

"At  any  rate,  you  seem  to  understand  each  other,"  she 
began  after  a  moment,  since  the  two  men  appeared  likely 
to  go  on  digesting  this  thought  indefinitely. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  understand  each  other,"  Hugh  answered 

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easily,  and  sitting  down  across  the  table  from  them  he 
brushed  to  one  side  the  books  and  papers  of  Evelyn's 
reign,  and  opening  the  little  brown  book,  began  to  read. 

For  two  hours  he  read,  in  his  pleasant  clean-cut  Eng- 
lish speech;  and  high-prowed  ships  set  sail  and  plowed 
the  wine-dark  sea,  heroes  and  kings  came  clashing  to 
immortal  combat,  a  great  lord  sulked  in  his  tent  and 
mighty  offerings  smoked  to  the  gods,  who  helped  or  hin- 
dered as  the  implacable  fates  ordained — for  the  book  was 
the  Iliad  of  Homer. 

At  first  she  listened,  swayed  by  his  voice,  but  after  a 
little  the  combats  and  prayers  and  slaughters  wearied  her, 
and  her  mind  roamed  restlessly  here  and  there.  After 
an  hour  she  glanced  at  Card,  ready  to  interpose  and  save 
him  the  strain  of  attention  too  long  tried.  But  one  glance 
was  enough:  he  was  not  only  intent,  he  was  interested 
to  excitement. 

His  face  was  flushed,  his  hands  clenched  and  un- 
clenched. He  sulked  with  Achilles,  he  burned  with 
Patroclus.  When  the  voice  of  the  reader  ceased  he  sank 
back  in  his  chair  and  closing  his  eyes,  disappeared  from 
them  into  a  revery. 

"Is — is  that  all  you  are  going  to  do  to-day?"  Evelyn 
asked,  as  Finister  rose,  evidently  to  leave  them. 

"Don't  you  think  he  has  had  all  he  can  stand?"  he 
answered,  smiling.  "You  see,  you  only  listened;  he  felt 
it." 

"I  saw  that,"  she  admitted.  "I  confess  it  all  seems  a 
little  childish  to  me." 

"Why  not?"  he  agreed  promptly.  "It  was  the  child- 
hood of  the  world,  you  know.  They  were  men,  but  in 
many  ways  they  were  children.  A  man  who  is  in  many 
ways  a  child  understands  them." 

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"I  see,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

When  he  came  the  next  morning  she  stayed  only  long 
enough  to  see  him  started  into  the  endless  battles  and 
feasts,  and  left  them  to  swim  and  wander  in  her  daily 
solitude.  The  third  day  she  found  Card,  on  her  return, 
poring  over  the  placid  cameo  lines  of  an  old  folio  of 
Flaxman's  classic  drawings :  filleted  priestesses,  calm- 
browed  gods,  and  lovely  curved  chariots.  While  the  tire- 
less reader's  voice  filled  his  ears,  his  eyes  followed  the 
perfect  sweep  of  the  urns  and  friezes,  the  columns  and 
lintels  of  an  art  that  has  never  been  approached  before 
or  since  the  Doric  pillar  emerged  from  marble  and  taught 
the  world  proportion.  As  soon  as  the  smoke  of  the  last 
funeral  pyre  had  ascended  to  heaven  they  began  the 
Odyssey,  and  while  Evelyn  embroidered  and  dreamed  in 
her  wicker  lounging  chair,  Circe  turned  her  gluttons  into 
swine,  Medea  gloomed  above  her  awful  caldron,  Atlas 
panted  under  the  weight  of  the  world,  and  the  mystic 
apples  glowed  in  the  never  fading  gardens  of  the  Hes- 
perides. 

That  day  and  afterwards  he  stayed  and  lunched  with 
them,  and  while  Card,  according  to  his  custom,  mused  in 
silence  on  the  journeys  of  the  wily  Ulysses  over  the  pur- 
ple sea,  his  teacher  tried  to  show  Evelyn  a  little  of  his 
plan. 

"Look !"  he  would  beg  her  impatiently.  "Only  look  at 
the  pig-headed  way  they  dig  at  all  this  sort  of  thing  at 
home.  Not  a  boy  at  Eton  but  would  laugh  at  your  hus- 
band because  he  can't  make  atrocious  Latin  verses,  and 
not  one  in  a  hundred  who  feels  the  classics  as  he  does !" 

"Then  you  think  he  has  gained " 

"I  think  he  has  gained  Greece!"  he  cried.  "I  think  he 
has  got  what  all  the  construing  was  begun  for !  Do  you 

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think  when  the  libraries  crossed  the  sea  and  the  scholars 
descended  on  Europe  it  was  to  teach  past  participles? 
Do  you  suppose  Oxford  and  Bologna  and  the  University 
of  Paris  were  founded  on  verbs  ?  They  were  founded  to 
preserve  treasures;  and  ever  since  then  English  school- 
boys have  mined  for  those  treasures  till  they  have  worn 
out  their  picks  and  shovels — and  never  won  the  jewel  in 
the  end !" 

She  smiled  at  his  enthusiasm,  as  Eve  smiles  endlessly 
at  Adam's  incomprehensible  passion  for  an  idea,  and 
noted  only  that  since  he  had  been  so  much  with  them  her 
husband  had  grown  more  talkative  and  talked  more  as 
she  had  hoped  he  might.  And  this  not  from  any  correc- 
tion, for  from  the  day  Hugh  came  to  them  correction 
ceased,  and  she  realized  what  a  drag  on  their  intercourse 
it  had  been.  Card  absorbed  idioms  from  this  man  as 
children  absorb  them  from  a  nurse;  the  very  tones  of 
his  voice  altered. 

One  day,  just  as  she  had  decided  that  Apollo  would 
clasp  his  Daphne  forever,  only  to  kiss  the  bark  of  the 
tree  that  hid  her,  that  angry  Juno  would  forever  avenge 
her  sex,  that  Venus  must  eternally  pursue  Adonis — that 
all  these  personages  would  never  leave  their  veranda,  in 
short — one  day  Hugh  came  with  an  armful  of  paper 
cones  and  triangles  and  squares,  and  for  a  week  they  fell 
upon  Geometry.  To  Evelyn,  poorly  taught  and  naturally 
inapt  at  it,  Card's  progress  seemed  startling.  The  ab- 
straction of  the  reasoning  appealed  to  him;  he  moved 
from  theorem  to  theorem  with  increasing  facility  and 
speed.  And  as  soon  as  he  grew  weary  at  it  his  amazing 
teacher  read  to  him  the  Plagues  of  Pharaoh  the  Great  and 
the  adventures  of  Joseph  and  his  Brethren ! 

"But  the  Bible "  she  protested,  vaguely  resentful  of 

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time  wasted  on  religion,  when  their  pupil  already  devoted 
so  much  to  it. 

"He  is  studying  the  Oriental  mind,"  Hugh  corrected 
her,  "through  its  greatest  literature.  No  one  can  be 
called  cultured  who  is  ignorant  of  the  Jew." 

He  had  by  this  time  so  fitted  into  their  little  household 
that  there  was  no  pretense  of  any  business  being  more 
important  to  him  than  the  education  of  his  pupil.  His 
assistant  at  the  dusty  office,  where  the  most  regular  busi- 
ness was  a  game  of  cribbage  with  the  American  consul, 
gladly  accepted  an  increased  wage  and  a  corresponding 
increase  of  responsibility,  and  Hugh,  unwillingly  in  re- 
ceipt of  a  salary  which  Evelyn  based  upon  her  knowledge 
of  the  value  of  high-class  secretarial  work,  spent  all  but 
his  hours  of  sleep,  five  days  of  the  week,  with  them. 

Unlike  the  youth,  with  whose  mental  processes  she  had 
confused  her  husband's,  Card  needed  no  holidays;  his 
lessons  were  heaven-sent  boons,  his  tutor  his  friend. 
Every  hour  was  teaching  him,  every  talk  with  this  man 
an  open  door.  The  six  days  of  Creation  blossomed  into 
a  geological  chart ;  the  Tower  of  Babel  unrolled  into  the 
map  of  the  world  that  had  baffled  Evelyn,  until  in  despair 
she  had  allowed  it  to  shrink  into  a  motorist's  guide !  She 
watched  them,  astonished,  and  one  day  found  herself 
studying  the  map  of  Asia  with  her  husband,  tracing  the 
wanderings  of  that  wonderful,  dominant  Aryan  race,  on 
their  struggling,  slantwise  journey  to  the  Anglo-Saxon! 

Here,  just  as  she  looked  to  see  the  ordinary  course  of 
historical  study  resumed,  and  the  family  trees  of  kings 
laboriously  planted,  the  maps  were  laid  aside,  and  they 
plunged  into  what  she  despairingly  described  as  German 
opera!  Wotan  and  Logi  quarreled  and  thundered, 
Briinnhilde  slept  in  her  fire,  and  they  moved  through  the 

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entangled  legends  of  the  misty  North.  One  day  when 
the  sound  of  Card's  voice,  reading,  drew  her  in  curiosity 
to  the  veranda,  she  found  that  she  was  listening,  not  to 
history,  but  to  a  fairy  tale  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen ! 
Nursery  classics  of  the  Brothers  Grimm  that  had  enliv- 
ened her  study  of  German  followed,  and  Hansel  and 
Gretel  and  the  stork-princess  filled  the  hours  that  she 
had  wearied  with  her  tables  and  dates. 

Nor  did  she  quite  grasp  the  full  meaning  of  Hugh's 
laughing  answers  to  her  criticisms. 

"You  can  pass  muster  in  any  drawing-room,  and  be 
ignorant  of  the  date  of  Charlemagne's  coronation,"  he 
said  once,  "but  if  you  don't  know  that  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  was  waked  by  a  kiss,  and  if  Cinderella's  pumpkin- 
coach  conveys  no  meaning  to  your  mind,  how  can  you 
pretend  to  be  educated?  These  things  are  known  to  the 
nursery  and  the  drawing-room  and  the  university  pro- 
fessor alike — they  are,  in  a  word,  the  traditional  body  of 
culture." 

"In  that  case,"  she  murmured,  "I  should  suppose  you'd 
begin  with  Mother  Goose." 

"That  comes  next,"  he  returned  calmly,  and  when  she 
came  in  from  her  swim  the  next  day  she  actually  found 
him  half  reading,  half  chanting  the  saga  of  Jack  and  Jill! 

"I  believe  you  do  it  to  tease  me !"  she  accused  him,  but 
he  denied  any  such  base  motive  quite  seriously. 

"I  was  eighteen  years  old,  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "before 
I  knew  a  word  of  French,  and  now  it  is  almost  as  easy 
as  my  own  tongue  to  me.  My  cousins'  governess  offered 
to  teach  me,  and  how  do  you  think  she  began?  With 
French  nursery  rhymes.  She  sang  to  me  of  Pierrot,  au 
clair  de  la  lune,  of  Marlbrouck,  who  went  to  the  war; 
'we  danced  on  the  bridge  of  Avignon,  just  as  the  French 

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babies  do.    She  was  a  wonderful  woman,  ma'mselle,  and 
she  gave  me  my  first  ideas  about  education." 

"But  Jack  the  Giant-Killer " 

"Jack  is  a  very  great  person,  madame.  Do  you  know 
who  he  is  ?  He  is  Hercules,  no  less.  And  do  you  know 
who  Hercules  is?  He  is  the  sun,  at  endless  labors 
through  the  twelve  long  months,  beaten  in  the  winter, 
reviving  in  the  spring,  triumphant  in  the  summer." 

"Nobody  ever  told  me  that,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"Just  as  nobody  tells  you  that  for  fear  you  might  for- 
get Brunnhilde,  waked  through  her  flames  by  a  kiss,  the 
children  have  kept  her  as  'la  belle  au  bois  dormant,' 
waked  by  a  kiss  through  her  thorns.  And  the  children 
of  the  world's  youth  meant  that  she  was  the  spring, 
kissed  out  of  winter  into  summer,  whenever  the  year 
goes  rcund." 

'No  wonder  Edward  likes  to  study  with  you!"  she 
said,  and  often,  after  that,  she  sat  through  the  morning 
with  them,  though  they  had  long  since  passed  her  in 
geometry. 

One  of  her  few  school  friends,  grown  to  a  hopeless 
invalid,  stopped  on  her  husband's  yacht,  in  a  trip  to  Ja- 
maica just  then,  and  for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage 
she  left  Card  for  a  ten  days'  sail.  Finister  was  to  stay 
with  him ;  Ukada  was  a  perfectly  competent  major-domo ; 
Swenson,  though  undeniably  jealous  of  Hugh,  a  trusty 
guardian,  and  Evelyn  had  all  the  eagerness  of  a  school- 
girl for  what  she  knew  was  no  more  than  a  nursing  visit. 
But  it  was  the  first  independent  expedition,  really,  of 
her  life,  with  the  exception  of  her  fortnight  at  the 
Palmer  camp,  and  she  was  very  nearly  as  grateful 
for  it. 

The  simple,  easy  comments  on  her  marriage,  the  de- 

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light  of  Helen's  husband  in  a  dinner  companion,  made  a 
real  holiday  out  of  what  would  have  seemed  a  dull  voy- 
age to  a  more  spoiled  palate ;  and  when  they  said  good-by 
to  her  in  the  ship's  boat,  and  promised  to  stop  when  they 
came  again  in  November,  she  felt  that  she  had  enjoyed  a 
tiny  foretaste  of  the  future. 

She  walked  in  on  them  suddenly  at  tea-time,  with  a 
real  sense  of  coming  home.  They  were  deep  in  Dickens, 
"because  anyone  who  knows  Dickens  thoroughly  knows 
Victorian  England  thoroughly,"  Hugh  explained.  They 
read  aloud  to  each  other,  taking  it  in  turns,  and  Evelyn, 
before  they  knew  of  her  presence,  had  been  amazed  to 
find  that  she  had  almost  mistaken  her  husband  for  his 
teacher,  so  fluent  was  his  eager  voice.  They  were  lost  in 
the  ageless  Micaivber — "Mica-tuber  is  England  as  much 
as  Paolo  and  Franceses  are  Italy,"  said  Hugh — and  Eve- 
lyn wondered  that  she  could  have  found  the  absurd  man 
tiresome ;  he  seemed  very  real  as  Card  read  his  whimsi- 
calities so  relishingly. 

How  big  he  was,  the  man  she  had  married!  How — 
how  different,  somehow,  from  what  she  remembered 
him  .  .  .  she  did  not  realize  that  he  always  flashed  into 
her  mind  as  she  saw  him  first.  That  had  been  the  burn- 
ing, the  indelible  impression,  and  the  lines  her  terror  and 
fatigue  had  plowed  into  her  brain  in  the  most  poignant 
moment  of  her  life  had  never  been  effaced. 

But  more  than  the  discovery  of  David  Copperfield  had 
occurred  to  the  man  who  read  his  history  so  happily ;  as 
she  was  to  find  out. 

When,  at  nine  o'clock,  after  her  traveler's  budget  was 
emptied  and  Hugh  would  have  ordinarily  risen  and 
started  on  the  walk  to  Hamilton  that  was  his  only  reg- 
ular exercise,  he  smiled  and  pointed  to  the  room  above 

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their  head  that  she  had  had  arranged  for  him  before 
she  left. 

"Unless  you  object  seriously,  Mrs.  Card,"  he  said, 
"your  husband  and  I  have  agreed  that  I  shall  continue 
to  sleep  up  there." 

"To  sleep  .  .  ."  she  repeated,  uncertain  of  his  mean- 
ing. 

"He  has  convinced  me  that  I  can  do  better  by  my  book 
and  himself  and — perhaps — the  Admiralty  Department 
by  remaining  permanently  with  him,"  Hugh  went  on. 
"I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  your  husband  has  become 
very  ambitious,  Mrs.  Card.  He  has  not  read  'Our  Mu- 
tual Friend'  in  vain,  and,  like  the  Boffins,  he  wants  a 
private  secretary !  We  have  settled  all  the  business  side 
of  it  and  I  have  agreed  to  stay — subject,  of  course,  to 
your  approval." 

"But — but,  of  course !  I  shall  be  only  too  delighted !" 
she  stammered. 

He  nodded  and  turned  to  Card. 

"So  that's  settled,"  he  said  lightly,  and  she  felt,  with 
an  unreasonable  wrench,  that  his  referring  the  question  to 
her  was  a  matter  of  the  merest  courtesy.  It  was  clear 
that  he  regarded  her  husband  as  the  most  natural  judge 
of  the  situation,  the  final  authority.  A  man,  he  appealed 
to  the  man:  had  he  forgotten,  or  had  he  never  under- 
stood that  he  had  been  selected,  employed,  by  her,  to 
form  the  pupil  with  whom  he  seemed,  somehow,  in  a 
sort  of  league  .  .  .  not  against  her?  Surely,  not  against 
her? 

No,  it  was  not  that.  It  was  only  the  feeling  that  where 
once  it  had  been  he  and  she,  and  Card  the  object  of  their 
common  thought,  now  it  was  Card  and  he,  the  two  men, 
and  she  the  object  of  their  common  courtesy. 

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"I — I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  stay,"  she  said,  feeling  her 
voice  colder  than  she  meant. 

"Oh,  he'll  stay,"  Card  said,  easily.  "It's  all  settled. 
He'll  stay." 

And  she  realized  that  the  master  of  the  house  had 
spoken. 


XIV 

AS  Evelyn  was  to  learn,  more  had  happened  in  her 
brief  absence  from  the  cottage  than  she  could 
have  dreamed  possible.    When  she  rose  the  next 
morning  and  sped  softly  down  the  stairs  for  her  ocean 
bath,  Card's  open  door  showed  her  that  there  was  no 
need  for  quiet :   he  was  not  there.     Neither  Finister  nor 
the  Swede  answered  her  call,  and  a  quick  suspicion  that 
Hugh  had  gone  to  bathe  in  the  pool  she  had  described  to 
him  and  taken  Card  to  watch  him,  sent  her  back  for  the 
swimming  suit  she  had  used  on  the  yacht. 

When  she  reached  her  little  beach  it  was  quite  empty 
and  she  swam  there  alone,  but  as  she  came  out  of  the 
water  a  long  hail  from  outside  just  reached  her  ears  and 
she  saw  two  bobbing  heads  beyond  the  breakers :  a  quiet 
figure  in  the  wheeled  chair  on  the  beach — she  wondered 
that  she  could  have  overlooked  it — brought  a  sudden  pang 
of  pity  to  her  heart.  Was  it  quite  kind  of  the  two  sound 
men,  pushing  so  gladly  through  the  velvet  water  out  there, 
to  bring  that  helpless  one  to  watch  them  ?  What  a  swim- 
mer he  would  have  made,  with  those  long,  powerful  arms 
of  his!  And  yet,  she  remembered  bitterly,  even  as  she 
plunged  under  the  big  foaming,  pounding  arch  that  glit- 
tered above  her,  how  little  she  knew  of  men,  after  all! 
Hugh  Finister  had  understood  more  of  her  husband  in  a 
few  weeks  than  she  had  been  able  to  learn  in  as  many 
months,  it  seemed  .  .  . 

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She  was  through  the  breakers  now  and  headed  out  for 
them,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  to  the  quiet  figure  in  the 
chair,  who  waved  and  called  back  to  her.  Soon  she  could 
distinguish  Hugh's  face ;  he  was  coming  toward  her,  hand 
over  hand,  a  powerful,  swift  swimmer.  Swenson  swam 
on  his  side,  half  under  water:  only  his  arm  could  be  seen, 
driving  out  like  the  piston  of  an  engine. 

"Good  morning,  Captain !"  she  called  out,  delighted  at 
a  companion,  wondering  vaguely  that  Swenson  had  not 
gone  in  to  shore  when  she  started  out  to  them. 

"We  thought  we'd  surprise  you !"  he  called  back ;  and 
even  as  she  thought,  her  eyes  on  the  other  swimmer, 

"How  lucky  men  are!  They  don't  care  if  their  hair 
gets  wet  .  .  ."  the  man  lifted  his  head,  and  she  stared 
into  her  husband's  eyes ! 

It  was  too  incredible.  She  could  not  grasp  it,  and  lay, 
cold  with  terror,  in  the  water,  her  arms  moving  mechan- 
ically, her  eyes  staring,  dark  as  ink,  out  of  a  face  from 
which  all  the  blood  had  drained. 

"Good  morning,  Eve-Marie!"  he  shouted,  his  teeth 
gleaming  in  his  brown  beard,  his  blue  eyes  dancing  like 
the  sea  beyond  them.  "Are  you  surprised  with  me  ?  We 
didn't  tell  you " 

"No.  You  didn't  tell  me,"  she  murmured,  and  her 
voice  came  to  her  as  the  voice  of  someone  else  far 
away ;  her  whole  body  grew  curiously  light. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Card — are  you — do  you " 

This  was  Finister's  voice,  far  away,  too,  and  reced- 
ing, it  seemed,  as  she  listened.  How  foolish  and  alarmed 
his  face  looked,  floating  on  the  waves!  What  was  the 
matter  with  her — she  was  sinking  .  .  .  sinking  under 
the  water,  all  gray  and  yellow  now  ...  it  must  all  be  a 
dream,  a  nightmare,  and  doubtless  she  was  in  her  bed 

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.  .  .  how  could  a  cripple  swim?  Now  she  was  drawing 
the  salt  water  into  her  mouth,  her  nostrils ;  a  shout,  "Keep 
back!  I'm  going  for  her!"  seemed  to  crash  down  from 
the  very  roof  of  the  sky,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  lost  consciousness  and  fainted. 

It  might  have  been  seconds  or  centuries  when  her  mind 
flew  back  to  her  again  out  of  the  mysterious  spaces  of 
its  retreat,  and  she  knew  herself  and  where  she  was: 
Evelyn  Jaffray  (she  had  never  been  able  to  think  of 
herself  by  any  other  name)  a  woman  in  the  blue  Ber- 
muda water,  grasped  like  a  doll  and  held  in  the  grip  of 
an  arm  so  strong  that  she  had  not  known  such  strength 
to  be  possible.  Card's  swimming  jersey  was  cut  out 
deeply  at  the  neck,  and  her  head  was  pressed  against 
his  vast,  rough  chest,  so  close  that  she  could  scarcely 
breathe.  With  his  free  arm  he  swept  a  way  for  them 
through  the  rushing  water;  against  her  side  she  felt  his 
great,  pounding  heart  .  .  .  consciousness  of  his  intoler- 
able nearness  flooded  over  her,  she  tried  to  stir  in  his 
arm. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said,  muffled  against  his  shoulder, 
"let  me  go,  Edward,  I  am  quite  all  right  now." 

But  he  did  not  hear  her,  and  forged  ahead,  puffing 
out  his  breath  like  some  mighty  Triton;  they  seemed  to 
glide  through  the  water  as  a  seal  or  a  great  fish  glides, 
with  no  effort  that  the  spectator  can  discover.  Furious, 
frightened,  oppressed  with  something  like  horror  at  the 
mysterious  smooth  ease  of  his  motion — how  could  a 
man  swim  whose  legs  were  paralyzed? — she  struggled 
feebly  with  that  iron  arm ;  it  was  as  if,  suddenly,  he  was 
running  away  with  her,  against  her  will,  that  will  with 
which  she  had  meant  to  direct,  so  peaceably,  his  life  and 
hers.  She  felt  trapped,  beaten,  a  prey. 

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"Let  me  go !  Loosen  your  arm !"  she  cried,  and  twist- 
ing desperately,  she  grasped  his  arm  and  forced  her  head 
higher,  so  that  her  cheek  no  longer  pressed  against  his 
hairy  chest,  but  a  sudden,  smooth  space  above  it,  as 
white  and  soft  as  her  own  shoulder. 

"Be  quiet!"  he  said  briefly,  and  she  realized  that  he 
had  replied  to  her,  as  she  had  spoken,  in  French.  "Do 
not  struggle,  and  there  is  no  danger.  I  can  swim  for 
two.  I  shall  have  to  hurt  you,  if  you  struggle." 

"But  I  can  swim  myself,"  she  insisted.  "There  is  no 
need  for  you  to  carry  all  my  weight,  like  this." 

In  vain  she  tried  to  move  her  hot  cheek  from  that 
smooth,  hard  arm:  the  more  she  fought,  the  more  the 
struggle  seemed  to  drive  her  against  him. 

"I  like  it — carrying  your  weight,"  he  said  simply. 

"But  I  do  not,"  she  cried,  near  to  tears,  now,  baffled 
by  the  foolish  helplessness  that  left  her  at  the  mercy 
of  feelings  she  had  never  known. 

"I  demand  that  you  let  me  swim  by  myself!  You 
hurt  me — you  hurt  my  shoulder !" 

Slowly,  muscle  by  muscle,  he  relaxed  his  hold.  She 
floated  free  in  the  water  beside  him,  trembling  and  in- 
secure, dreading  the  line  of  breakers  before  them. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hurt  you,"  came  the  grave  voice,  "but 
if  you  are  ill  you  cannot  swim,  can  you  ?" 

"I  was  not  ill,"  she  stammered,  glad  in  spite  of  her- 
self to  have  him  near  her,  while  her  arms  and  legs  felt, 
still,  so  leadlike,  "I  was — you  startled  me — how  could 
I  know  that  you  could " 

"All  right,  now?"  Finister's  voice  came  from  close 
beside  her.  "I  can't  describe  to  you,  Mrs.  Card,  what 
a  brute  I  feel  ...  if  you  knew  how  abysmally  I  apolo- 
gize!" 

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"Don't — now !"  she  said  unsteadily.  "Just  come  in  with 
me,  will  you?" 

She  put  her  finger-tips  on  his  shoulder  and  he  made 
for  the  breakers  without  comment.  As,  paddling  lightly, 
she  drifted  along  beside  him,  avoiding  his  powerful  leg- 
stroke  automatically,  the  remembrance  surged  over  her 
that  there  had  been  no  such  need,  when  Gard  had  held 
her.  Great  heavens!  How  could  a  man,  utterly  mo- 
tionless but  for  one  arm,  carry  his  own  dead  weight 
and  a  woman's  through  the  water?  She  felt  weak 
again  and  Finister  felt  her  weight  grow  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Gard,"  he  said  decidedly.  "I'm  not  going 
to  let  you  dive  under  alone;  you're  simply  not  up  to  it. 
Just  take  a  good  breath,  and  let  me  manage." 

And  catching  her  in  his  left  arm  he  watched  the  big 
combers,  warily  judging  his  best  chance. 

She  yielded  instantly. 

He  was  a  magnificent  swimmer,  as  supple  as  an  eel, 
stronger  than  his  slight  frame  advertised.  Evelyn  felt 
perfectly  safe  with  him,  and  her  judgment  warned  her 
that  she  would  probably  miss  her  first  attempt  and  be 
badly  pounded  if  she  tried  for  her  wave  alone.  But  even 
as  they  sank  together  and  he  tightened  his  grip  upon 
her,  she  understood  that  it  was  he  who  had  taught  Gard 
that  grip  (for  she  lay  in  precisely  the  same  relative  po- 
sition in  his  grasp)  and  that  in  some  contradictory,  in- 
explicable way  she  missed  the  massive  cradling  of  the 
great  arm  that  had  held  her  at  first.  Not  that  Hugh 
was  not  a  strong  and  capable  rescuer ;  his  efficient  hold  of 
her,  the  quickness  with  which  he  had  brought  her  to  the 
blinding  glare  of  the  surface,  safe  in  her  quiet  pool,  were 
not  lost  on  so  accomplished  a  water-woman  as  herself. 

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But  as  they  stretched,  a  little  blown,  and  dripping  from 
head  to  heel,  on  the  warm  sand  of  her  small  beach,  Evelyn 
realized  that  if,  years  from  that  sunny  morning,  it  should 
ever  be  her  fate  to  be  saved  from  drowning,  she  could 
never  cling  to  her  savior,  whoever  he  might  be,  without  a 
vivid  memory  of  Card's  relentless,  inescapable  arm ;  could 
never,  in  any  struggle  back  from  unconsciousness,  forget 
that  great,  rough  chest  where  her  cheek  had  rested  when 
she  came  to  herself,  a  child  in  his  grasp,  in  the  blue 
ocean ! 

"I'm  a  brute — an  ass !"  Hugh  was  repeating  contritely. 
"I  ought  to  have  known — can  you  ever  forgive  me  ?  We 
only  thought  how  pleased  you  would  be — you  under- 
stand, don't  you,  Mrs.  Card?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  she  soothed  him,  stronger 
with  every  breath.  "Don't  think  of  it,  don't !  Only,  you 
see,  it  was  such  a  shock,  when  I  thought  he  was  in  the 
chair — it  was  Swenson,  of  course?" 

"We  wanted  to  surprise  you,"  he  muttered,  shamed. 
"Of  course,  a  moment's  consideration  would  have  shown 
anybody  but  an  absent-minded  idiot  like  me  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,"  she  said  gently,  "I  suppose  men  don't  always 
think." 

"A  man  that  knew  anything  about  women  would,"  he 
persisted  humbly,  "and  you'll  know,  now,  that  I  don't, 
if  you  didn't,  before!  You  see,  Mrs.  Card,  not  being 
married,  we  don't  realize,  I  suppose,  what  it  is  when 
anyone  you — when  one  is  so  attached " 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  she  said  hastily.  "But  tell  me 
all  about  it,  now,  Captain  Finister:  how  can  he  support 
his  weight  with  no  help  like  that?  It  can't  be  that  in 
the  water  there  is — is  any  change?" 

He  was  all  eagerness  now. 

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OPEN    MARKET 

"I'll  tell  you  while  Card  is  out  there,"  he  said  de* 
lightedly.  "He  won't  come  in  for  another  hour." 

After  all,  it  was  all  very  simple.  Swenson  had  long 
felt  that  sea  bathing  would  be  beneficial  to  his  master  and 
with  Finister's  enthusiastic  support  had  induced  him  to 
lie  in  the  froth  of  the  waves  and  let  the  warm  salt  water 
break  over  him.  An  old  bos'n,  brought  up  by  Hugh  to 
entertain  Card  with  his  reminiscences,  and  interested  in 
their  schemes  for  fitting  their  patient  out  with  some  spe- 
cial form  of  cork  jacket,  had  suggested  cork  trousers, 
instead,  and  the  next  day,  commissioned  by  Hugh,  ac- 
tually constructed  of  canvas  and  cork  a  rough  model, 
subsequently  improved  upon,  which  surpassed  in  its  prac- 
tical results,  all  their  hopes.  Their  pupil  had  caught  the 
stroke  very  quickly,  had  delighted  from  the  beginning  in 
the  motion  through  the  water,  and  would  have  spent  all 
his  mornings  in  the  ocean,  had  he  been  allowed.  The 
effect  on  his  strength  and  vitality  had  been  most  happy: 
it  seemed  to  Hugh  that  from  the  first  day  he  had  ac- 
complished more  with  his  morning  readings,  had  advanced 
by  stages  more  and  more  rapid. 

"He  wanted  to  do  Latin,"  added  Hugh,  "to  know 
the  Mass  thoroughly,  you  know.  So  we  began  with 
that." 

"Yes,"  she  said  absently,  "yes." 

Her  eyes  were  half  closed,  her  thoughts  were  not  with 
him,  he  felt. 

"I  taught  him  life-saving — a  hobby  of  mine — only 
four  days  ago,"  Hugh  went  on.  "He  practiced  on  Swen- 
son and  me  till  I  really  believe  a  person  would  have 
hard  work  to  drown,  Mrs.  Card,  if  your  husband  insisted 
upon  saving  him !  Did  you  notice  what  a  wonderful  hold 
he  gets  of  you?" 

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OPEN    MARKET 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  face  turned  from  him,  "I  no- 
ticed." 

"I  saw,  of  course,  that  you  would  rather  come  in  with 
me,"  he  went  on  quietly.  "I  understood.  Just  give  us  a 
little  start,  and — and  you'd  want  to  leave  before  we  do, 
anyway." 

She  gave  an  inarticulate  murmur  and  kept  her  face 
turned  away. 

"It  must  be  a  wonderful  thing  for  you,"  he  went  on, 
"to  have  him  swimming  about  with  us,  this  way.  Don't 
think  I  didn't  understand  your  feelings,  when  he  helped 
you  ...  I  was  hoping  that  perhaps  they  might  make  up 
to  you  a  little  for  my  crass  stupidity  in  breaking  it  to 
you  so  roughly  .  .  ." 

But  now  Evelyn's  nerves  gave  way  utterly,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  that  day,  alone  in  her  room  at  Bleeck- 
pits,  she  sobbed  aloud. 

Hugh  Finister,  his  wide-set  gray  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
tiptoed  clumsily  away. 

"My  God,"  he  muttered,  striding  blindly  across  the 
packed,  white  sand,  "to  think  of  being  loved  like  that!" 


XV 


PERHAPS  it  was  from  this  day  that  Evelyn  ceased 
speaking  English  with  her  husband.  Either  be- 
cause it  was  no  longer  necessary,  for  he  and  Finis- 
ter  conducted  all  their  reading  in  his  native  tongue;  or 
because  the  old  phrases  brought  back  to  her  the  days — 
so  long  ago,  now ! — when  he  had  been  her  docile  pupil, 
dependent  upon  her  for  his  every  hope  of  contact  with 
the  world,  they  spoke  to  each  other  in  the  French  they 
had  used  on  the  day  of  their  first  encounter  in  the  thick 
of  the  woods. 

But  even  his  French  was  changing.  A  shade  of  Father 
Vellac's  urbane  felicity  of  phrase,  a  hint  of  his  nervous, 
cosmopolitan  vocabulary,  was  creeping  into  Card's  pre- 
cise, academic  sentences :  here  and  there  a  bit  of  color 
from  the  Paris  streets  Pere  Antoine  had  never  known, 
an  odor  of  the  barracks,  masculine  and  rude,  a  tang  of 
the  sea,  a  fatalistic  shrug  of  speech  inseparable  from 
one  who  had  followed  the  Service  from  St.  Petersburg 
to  Bloemfontein.  Sometimes  he  used  a  word  unknown 
to  Evelyn,  and  the  incident  would  have  a  curious  effect 
upon  her ;  she  would  treasure  it  in  her  mind  and  inquire 
of  Finister  later. 

Their  morning  readings  she  soon  ceased  to  follow ; 
Card  had  left  her  far  behind  in  Geometry  and  Latin,  for 
both  of  which  he  had  a  great  native  aptitude,  and  she 
had  done  so  much  reading  aloud  in  her  life  that  she 

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did  not  enjoy  listening  to  it.  She  had  a  cottage  piano 
brought  to  the  drawing-room  and  practiced  upon  it  with 
an  interest  which  grew  with  her  growing  technic;  she 
read  from  the  little  library  in  the  town  all  the  novels 
she  had  had  no  time  for  till  now;  a  desultory  corre- 
spondence with  Georgie  Stuyvers,  Mr.  Palmer,  and  (of 
all  people!)  Cousin  Georgianna  Jay,  developed  into  regu- 
lar letters  by  every  boat 

The  technical  instruction  of  her  husband  she  had 
relinquished  with  relief;  she  was  incapable  of  it,  and 
she  knew  it.  But  the  knowledge  of  how  little  she  was 
now  required  to  play  the  mentor  in  those  details  of  daily 
living  where  she  felt  herself  more  than  competent,  was 
a  continual  surprise  to  her.  However  willingly  she 
would  have  admitted,  in  theory,  that  the  continual  asso- 
ciation with  a  man  of  Hugh's  type  must  have  a  tre- 
mendous effect  upon  her  husband's  developing  nature,  the 
results  were  so  immediate  and  so  practical  that  she  could 
scarcely  believe  her  eyes  and  ears.  Womanlike,  she  had 
counted  upon  precept  for  her  results;  the  tremendous 
force  of  example,  man's  strongest  and  unconscious 
weapon,  she  had  had  no  opportunity  of  testing.  Try 
as  she  might,  she  could  never  trap  Hugh  in  the  act  of 
correcting  his  pupil.  Unconscious,  apparently,  that  Gard 
had  any  other  background  than  his  own,  he  engaged  the 
big,  silent  fellow  in  continued  conversation ;  insisted  that 
all  his  own  English  points  of  view  should  be  either  shared 
or  disproved;  inferred,  apparently,  that  all  deviations 
from  his  own  code  of  manners  or  habits  were  due  to  dif- 
ference of  nationality,  or  else  matters  of  personal  pref- 
erence to  the  American. 

And  as  a  boy  at  school  will  form  himself,  half  con- 
sciously, half  unknowing,  upon  the  beloved  model  of  his 

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wonderful  captain,  so  Card's  speech  and  voice  and  angle 
of  outlook  molded  themselves  to  the  man  who  never 
relaxed  for  a  moment  the  steady  pressure  of  his  simple 
yet  stimulating  influence. 

To  the  garrulous  old  bos'n  Finister  had  added,  ap- 
parently at  random,  three  or  four  other  watermen,  quaint 
wharf  characters,  who  pulled  respectful  forelocks  and 
spat  apologetically  before  addressing  the  unusual  broad- 
shouldered  invalid  gentleman  in  the  supple  wheeled 
chair. 

One  afternoon  Evelyn  watched  two  tarry,  rolling- 
gaited  fellows  instructing  her  husband  in  the  mysteries 
of  sailors'  knots,  under  the  only  shade  tree  their  lawn 
boasted.  At  sight  of  Hugh  in  the  distance  Card  tossed 
the  plaited  strands  carelessly  away  from  him. 

"That  will  do  for  to-day,  my  men,"  he  said.  "Look  in 
to-morrow,  will  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  sir,"  the  elder  of  them  answered. 
"Come,  Bob,  clear  away,  now,"  and  they  swept  off  the 
bits  of  hemp  and  swung  out  of  the  little  gate. 

Something  caught  at  her  breath:  she  stared  at  the 
man  below,  on  the  lawn,  as  at  a  stranger.  So  perfectly 
had  he  identified  himself  with  Captain  Finister's  class 
that  she  herself  had  utterly  forgotten  that  it  was  the 
son  of  an  Adirondack  guide  who  spoke  thus  to  two 
sailors  with  whom,  had  the  elder  Gelatly  brought  them 
to  his  camp,  his  father  would  have  eaten  and  smoked  and 
bunked ! 

Soon  a  retired  captain  who  had  owned  his  own  fishing 
boat  was  added  to  the  tiny  court  that  gathered  round 
Card's  chair,  and  from  breathless  tales  of  equinoctials 
and  hairbreadth  escapes  from  reefs  they  passed  to  navi- 
gation, the  subject  that,  after  the  Latin  of  his  Mass  book, 

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most  interested  the  landsman.  It  appeared,  all  at  once, 
the  most  simple  affair  in  the  world  to  roll  his  chair  down 
into  the  hold  of  Captain  George's  brother's  boat;  and 
though  Evelyn  never  understood  the  details  of  the  block 
and  tackle  that  raised  him  so  easily  to  the  deck,  it  was 
clear  that  there  could  have  been  no  inconvenience  con- 
nected with  it  to  anyone  concerned,  for  he  now  spent  at 
least  three  afternoons  of  the  week  on  the  Ready  Gull, 
where  with  a  little  help  he  managed  very  well  on  his 
crutches.  A  cruise  of  a  week  was  proposed,  and  Evelyn, 
unwilling  to  hamper  the  captain  with  the  burden  of  one 
woman,  sent  her  two  men  off  alone,  as  she  supposed,  and 
settled  lazily  down  to  the  solitude  she  had  grown  to  take 
for  granted,  now. 

But  though  she  would  have  refused  the  suggestion  had 
it  been  offered  her,  and  begged  for  more  time,  there  was 
to  be  no  more  solitude  for  Evelyn  Card.  The  curious, 
dreamy  aloofness  of  the  past  six  months  was  over.  The 
world  she  had  not  yet  planned  to  meet  was  to  meet  her, 
and  in  ways  that  she  had  never  planned. 

Even  as  she  waved  to  her  men  from  the  dock,  smiling 
at  Card's  beaming  face,  tanned  till  his  eyes  sparkled 
unbelievably  blue,  the  world,  in  the  person  of  Miss  Char- 
lotte Alexander  Finister,  was  being  driven  at  a  smart 
pace  up  to  her  door.  Charlotte  was  a  brisk,  much-trav- 
eled spinster  of  fifty,  incurably  avid  of  every  form  of 
human  intercourse  compatible  with  her  keen  sense  of 
social  selection,  acquainted  in  every  corner  of  the  globe, 
of  iron  health  and  exhaustless  pursuit  of  entertaining 
experience.  Arriving  quite  unheralded,  she  had  just 
missed  her  youngest  brother  by  half  an  hour,  had  dis- 
covered his  dwelling-place,  inscribed  her  name  in  the  book 
at  Government  House,  purchased  material  for  blouses, 

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engaged  the  seamstress  to  make  them,  called  upon  the 
rector,  and  was  enjoying  her  second  cup  of  tea  on  the 
veranda  when  her  hostess  arrived. 

One  glance  at  the  impeccable  Ukada,  one  Napoleonic 
survey  of  the  flower-filled,  chintz-hung  drawing-room, 
one  sip  of  the  scented  tea,  had  been  enough  for  Miss 
Finister. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  that  my  ridiculous  infant  brother 
has  got  into  Christian  circumstances,  at  last!"  she  said 
affably,  hand  outstretched.  "But  will  you  tell  me  how 
he  has  brains  enough  to  be  the  secretary  of  anyone  who 
really  knows  enough  to  need  a  secretary?" 

It  was  as  if  Evelyn  had  always  known  her. 

An  hour  later  her  boxes  were  unpacked,  her  Church 
Service  and  her  card-case  were  installed  by  her  bed,  her 
amber  cigarette-holder,  her  tortoise-shell  lorgnette  and 
her  lemon-colored  French  novel  lay  on  the  second  chaise- 
longue  on  the  upper  veranda,  and  she  herself,  wonderful 
in  a  wistaria  embroidered  kimono  of  Chinese  silk,  her 
satin  mules  clicking  under  her  substantial  ankles,  had 
made  a  tour  of  the  cottage. 

"I  saw  your  aunt,  Nelly  Schermer,  in  London — Oh, 
she's  your  cousin  ? — and  of  course  you  know  James  Vroo- 
man?"  she  flowed  on  comfortably.  "Old  Madam  Jay  is 
settled  in  Baden.  She  is  a  quaint  old  object,  isn't  she, 
now?  Furious,  they  tell  me,  because  her  favorite  niece 
married  a  mysterious  billionaire,  with  no  legs  and  miles 
of  timber  in  the  Rockies — I  assure  you,  my  child,  the 
dresses  one  saw  in  Baden !  There's  no  pretense  at  any 
bodice  at  all  that  I  could  see — only  a  bit  of  mousseline- 
de-soie  wisped  about!  Nauheim's  really  the  place  for 
her,  you  know,  but  her  companion  told  her  so,  and  so 
she  was  staying  at  Baden  to  spite  her.  I  ran  across  a 

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handsome  American  girl  in  Paris,  by  the  way — is  there  a 
Madame  la  Garde  here,  do  you  know?  A  Miss  Geor- 
gianna  Stuyvers — she  was  dangling  that  dreadful  d'Azzali 
about  with  her.  (How  can  your  girls'  mothers  take 
such  risks,  my  dear?  Nobody  can  live  with  dAzzali 
— not  even  the  Opera  Comique  celebrities.)  We  met  at 
a  musicale,  at  one  of  your  duchesses,  and  the  girl  hap- 
pened to  hear  that  I  was  going  to  Bermuda  and  asked 
me  to  look  up  a  favorite  cousin  of  hers  who  had  mar- 
ried an  invalid  Frenchman,  there  for  his  health.  I 
promised  her  I  would — she  was  such  an  extraordinary 
girl :  so  hard,  your  girls  are,  aren't  they,  now  ?  I  couldn't 
see  for  the  life  of  me  that  she  cared  anything  for  a 
soul  in  the  world  but  this  cousin — Cousin  Evie,  she 
called  her.  She  owed  her  ten  dollars,  she  told  me,  and 
now  that  the  cousin  was  so  rich,  she  wanted  to  pay  it 
back!  Fancy  that!  Very  weak,  her  mother,  I  thought. 
I  have  a  brother  in  Mexico — my  fourth  youngest  brother, 
he  hates  Hugh,  poor  fellow — who  tells  me  that  it  is 
going  to  take  500,000  men  and  at  least  three  years  for 
you  to  settle  the  rows  there :  he  says  you're  bound  to 
come  in.  I  thought  the  Lincoln  Doctrine  (or  is  it  the 
Washington  Doctrine?)  prevented  all  that  by  law,  my 
dear?  But  perhaps  Mr.  Roosevelt  changed  all  that?" 

Evelyn  could  have  listened  to  her  for  hours. 

Twenty-four  hours  to  get  her  land-legs,  and  Miss 
Finister  was  ready  for  the  fray.  Any  faint  suggestions 
of  Evelyn's  mourning  she  brushed  easily  aside. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,  my  dear,"  she  said  good-na- 
turedly, "if  your  precious  husband  can  go  cruising  off 
with  a  boatload  of  men,  I  suppose  that  you  can  drive 
with  me  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  the  Admiral's  wife?" 

And  so,  preceded  by  Miss  Finister  under  full  sail,  her 

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waved  gray  hair  firmly  built  up  under  her  toque  of  glit- 
tering steel  beads,  her  keen  gray  eyes  darting  from 
Colonel  to  Bishop,  from  Bishop  to  Governor's  Lady,  her 
sharp  tongue  tossing  edged  comments  under  her  breath 
to  Evelyn,  herself  a  pronounced  figure  in  her  filmy  black, 
did  Mrs.  Card  make  her  bow  to  society  at  a  Bermuda 
garden  party ! 

She  could  have  asked  nothing  better:  it  was  barely 
Thanksgiving,  and  even  the  short  New  York  season  was 
not  far  enough  on  to  have  sent  its  hundreds  south.  Only 
the  vanguard  of  the  Americans  had  arrived,  and  the  resi- 
dent English  had  a  visiting  squadron  to  itself;  all  about 
the  beautiful  estate,  restored  by  a  wealthy  Philadelphian, 
one  heard  the  soft,  definite  English  voices;  over  the 
tennis  courts  sped  the  flying  feet  of  the  pale  Bermuda 
girls  and  their  pink-cheeked  English  guests.  Against 
the  fleckless  turquoise  of  the  sky  the  absurd  groups  of 
tropical  palms  that  give  such  odd,  Oriental  touches  to 
the  contradictory  island  spread  their  calm,  exotic  foliage. 

All  the  youth  leaped  up  in  Evelyn :  her  muscles  ached 
for  the  tennis,  her  eyes  flashed,  as  Georgie's  might  have 
at  the  appeal  of  the  uniforms.  They  gathered  round  her 
soon  ("Trust  the  men  to  chase  a  handsome  woman 
dressed  in  black!"  said  Miss  Finister  cheerfully)  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  thirty  years  she  stood,  the  center 
of  some  half-dozen  tall,  distinguished  men,  without  the 
uncomfortable  certainty  that  she  ought  to  withdraw  in 
favor  of  her  hostess  of  her  hostess'  other  guests. 

The  indefatigable  Charlotte,  of  the  age  when  a  hand- 
some, well-dressed  woman  some  twenty  years  younger 
than  herself,  at  once  friend  and  protegee,  makes  the 
most  delightful  of  companions,  had  involved  them  in  an 
hour  in  more  engagements  than  Evelyn  had  made  in  a 

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year :  sailing,  riding,  picnicking  and  lunching  were  merely 
the  skirmish-line  of  her  activities.  A  second  cousin 
("who  might  have  lived  and  died  on  the  island,  for  all 
Hugh  would  have  known  of  it,  my  dear!")  offered 
delighted  service  as  guide;  a  colonel's  wife  who  had 
been,  hitherto,  inclined  to  find  Captain  Finister  more  of 
a  nuisance  to  her  husband  than  a  social  asset,  swam 
eagerly  more  than  halfway  to  meet  his  entertaining  sister 
(was  it  true  that  the  Queen  was  her  godmother?)  who 
had  carried  her  firm,  high-colored  cheeks  and  twinkling 
eyes  so  many  times  around  a  world  that  had  provided  her 
tongue  with  so  many  racy  stories.  As  for  young  Mrs. 
Card,  she  was  quite  too  charming.  Everyone  knows 
how  delightful  the  really  nice  Americans  can  be — that  was 
her  Japanese  butler  one  sees  about,  marketing,  after  all. 
Captain  Finister  and  her  husband  are  writing  a  book 
together — Oh,  merely  to  employ  his  mind!  He  is  quite 
wealthy,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  Lame,  poor  man.  But 
most  distinguished — a  Romanist,  and  his  man  wheels 
him  to  church  every  Sunday.  Weren't  those  de  la 
Guardes,  in  Surrey,  an  old  Catholic  family,  now  ?  Prob- 
ably the  same — the  best  Americans  were  always  of  Eng- 
lish extraction. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  shadows  were  length- 
ening and  the  little  groups  drew  apart  and  murmured, 
two  and  two,  under  the  glossy  leaves,  a  pleasant  little 
woman,  the  wife  of  the  best  doctor  on  the  island,  who 
had  been  one  of  the  first  to  call  upon  Evelyn,  came  up 
to  her  wicker  chair  leading  a  slim,  dark  young  fellow 
whose  face  seemed  curiously  familiar:  where  could  she 
have  met  this  courtly  lad,  who  drew  his  heels  together  in 
the  European  fashion  and  flashed  such  audacious  admi- 
ration through  his  discreet,  veiled  glance? 

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"Senor"  (here  she  mumbled  a  name  obviously  beyond 
her  British  palate)  "insists  that  he  must  meet  you,  Mrs. 
Gard!  He  will  not  come  home  with  me  unless,  and  I'm 
under  obligation  to  get  him  to  dinner  at  the  Princess 
at  eight,  I  had  to  yield,  though  it  seems  hard  that  your 
husband  should  take  mine  away,  and  now  you  capture  my 
only  beau — isn't  that  what  you  call  it,  in  the  States  ?" 

Evelyn  bowed  and  smiled.  What  did  the  woman 
mean?  Where  had  she  known  this  boy? 

"At  least,  my  husband  is  innocent,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
resting  unconsciously  a  breath  too  long  on  the  dark 
eyes  that  kindled  instantly,  "for  he  is  cruising  with  Cap- 
tain Finister.  They  have  gone  for  a  week." 

"Exactly — and  my  Eustace  is  with  them,  didn't  you 
know  ?  And  Major  Pellew,  of  the  45th — you  know  ?  I've 
known  Hugh  Finister  a  great  many  years,  Mrs.  Gard, 
and  if  they  get  back  in  less  than  a  fortnight,  I'll  teach 
one  of  his  History  classes  for  a  week!" 

"Madame  looks — how  do  you  say  it? — struck  by  the 
thunder,"  said  the  Spanish-looking  youth,  a  little  ma- 
liciously. 

"Surely  she  would  prefer  that  monsieur  the  good  hus- 
band should  go  with  these  gentlemen  rather  than  with 
— let  us  say — their  all-too-lovely  wives?" 

He  swept  a  slender  dark  hand  toward  his  hostess,  and 
the  gesture,  the  stiff,  careful  English,  brought  to  her 
in  a  flash  the  resemblance  that  teased  her  so.  The  boy 
looked  as  her  husband  might  have  looked,  ten  years  ago ! 
Even  to  Card's  surprising  blue  eyes,  they  were  of  pre- 
cisely the  same  type,  and  the  pointed  brown  beard,  the 
seal  ring  on  the  tapered  finger,  the  grave,  mellow  voice, 
all  brought  it  home  to  her.  How  handsome  he  was — 
how  striking  .  .  .  why,  then,  how  much  handsomer,  how 

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much  more  striking,  must  her  husband  seem  to  one  who 
saw  him  for  the  first  time!  A  strange  confusion  of 
ideas  flushed  her  cheeks  under  the  young  man's  per- 
sistent and  perfectly  conscious  admiration;  it  was  as  if 
Card  stood  there,  looking  what  he  dared  not  say  into  her 
unwilling  eyes.  Suppose  he  had  .  .  .  she  frowned  and 
shook  her  shoulders  with  her  father's  old,  free  swing. 

"If  they  told  me  they  were  taking  Dr.  Blaikie  and — 
and  Major  Pellew,  I  must  have  forgotten,"  she  said 
smoothly,  "and  of  course  I  shall  be  glad  if  they  enjoy 
it  enough  to  stay  the  fortnight.  I  am  afraid  I  must  go 
now,  senor,"  and  she  held  out  her  hand  unconsciously. 

His  eager  pressure,  so  different  from  Card's  quiet 
grasp,  and  yet  so  amazingly  like,  as  she  looked  up  at 
him,  when  the  foreigner's  whole  aspect  and  physique 
confused  the  two  men  in  her  troubled  mind,  brought  the 
quick  color  to  her  cheek  again.  It  needed  only  her  obvi- 
ous discomposure,  coupled  with  her  equally  obvious  ab- 
sence of  mind,  her  carelessness  at  leaving  him,  to  clinch 
the  effect  she  had  already  made. 

"You  tremble  at  my  touch,  dark  lady,"  thought  the 
tall  fellow  exultantly,  "but  .  .  .  but  it  is  not  of  me  you 
are  thinking!"  he  must  needs  add,  honestly.  His  in- 
stincts, keen  as  a  woman's,  taught  him  that  there  was 
here  just  the  added  touch  of  mystery  needed  to  complete 
her  charm  for  him.  He  raised  her  hand  lightly  to  his 
lips,  and  saw  her  firm,  slight  bust  lift  quickly  as  his 
beard  brushed  her  warm  skin. 

"Au  revoir,  madame — surely  I  need  not  say  good-by?" 
— he  murmured,  while  Mrs.  Blaikie,  bored,  yet  distinctly 
curious  at  what  she  felt  to  be  an  inexplicable  little  scene, 
cried  lightly, 

"Oh,  these  Spaniards !  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Card  will 

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believe   in    any    such    romantic    performances — a    cold- 
blooded Yankee,  too?" 

"I  am  as  sure  that  Madame  Card  is  not  cold-blooded 
as  I  am  sure  that  I  am  not  a  Spaniard!"  he  answered 
quickly. 

Then,  with  a  little  bow,  "I  am  from  Portugal,  ma- 
dame — may  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  to  explain  to 
you  the  difference  between  the  two  nations  before  I 
leave  this  beautiful  Bermuda?" 

"Manuel,  Manuel,  you  imp  of  perdition,  it's  not  you  ?" 
cried  Charlotte  Finister,  seizing  him  suddenly  from  the 
rear.  "I  know  there  are  not  two  such  backs  in  this  little 
island  at  one  time !  Where  is  your  poor  mother  ?  What 
became  of  the  little  governess?  Is  your  uncle  dead, 
yet?" 

"Tante  Carlotta!" 

He  kissed  her,  simply  as  a  child,  on  each  cheek. 

"Mamma  is  at  Lisbon,  bien  entendu.  What  should 
I  know  of  governesses,  evil-minded  one?  Scandal-mon- 
ger! My  uncle,  thank  God,  has  passed  to  his  reward, 
and  Carlos  and  I  have  paid  the  tailor  at  last!  Where 
may  I  come  to  see  you?" 

"At  Mrs.  Card's,  to  be  sure,"  the  sprightly  Charlotte 
answered  him  delightedly.  "It  was  your  back,  bending 
over  her  hand,  that  gave  you  away,  as  they  say  in  her 
country.  Little  did  I  know  that  I  was  to  have  the  cares 
of  a  duenna  when  I  came!" 

Mrs.  Blaikie  bore  him  away,  protesting,  and  Evelyn 
and  Miss  Finister,  too  excited,  now,  to  go  tamely  home 
to  dinner,  stayed  to  share  the  informal  high  tea  of  their 
hostess,  an  old  school  friend  of  Christine,  that  friend 
of  all  the  world. 

"That  perfectly  absurd  Manuel  d'Acunha!" 

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Charlotte  Finister  shook  her,  head  and  frowned  and 
smiled. 

"Did  you  ever  know  his  mother — Cora  St.  John? 
No,  of  course  you'd  not  know  her;  what  am  I  thinking 
of!  She  was  from  one  of  your  western  states,  my 
dear,  Cleveland,  was  it,  or  Utah  ?  No,  that's  where  they 
have  all  the  wives — I'll  tell  you  where  it  was :  St.  Louis ! 
Her  father  was  enormously  rich  and  owned  miles  of 
plantations  and  levees  and  darkies  in  the  South,  and 
she  spent  half  her  time  down  there.  She  used  to  tell 
me  about  it — most  interesting  I  assure  you ! 

"Well,  my  dears,  old  d'Acunha  came  over — in  his  own 
ship,  mind  you! — from  Lisbon,  to  see  about  taking  all 
her  father's  sugar,  and  he  brought  his  son — that  was 
Manuel's  father — with  him  and  he  lost  his  heart  in  a 
jiffy,  and  actually  persuaded  Cora  to  marry  him!  Per- 
fectly extraordinary.  She  sailed  back  with  them,  with 
three  or  four  little  niggers  to  wait  on  her,  and  never 
came  back  to  the  States  but  once  after  that.  Old 
d'Acunha  couldn't  say  a  word  against  it,  because  his 
own  mother  was  an  American — a  Creole. 

"When  I  met  Cora — it  was  in  Buenos  Ayres — Oh,  ten 
years  ago — we  got  tremendously  friendly,  and  two  years 
afterward  I  spent  the  winter  in  Lisbon  with  her,  and 
two  or  three  years  after  that,  when  her  husband  died,  I 
went  to  South  Africa  with  her  to  look  after  some  land 
he'd  bought  there.  She's  a  wonderful  head  for  busi- 
ness, Cora.  So  I've  seen  Master  Manuel  grow  up  ... 
my  word,  it  was  something  to  see,  now  and  then!" 

When  the  cruising  party  had  been  away  a  week,  word 
came  in  by  a  fishing-smack  from  which  they  had  laid  in 
extra  supplies,  that  they  should  be  gone,  weather  hold- 
ing, a  week  longer.  Was  Evelyn  more  relieved  or  dis- 

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appointed?  She  could  not  have  said,  for  her  life.  Her 
momentary  resentment  at  Hugh's  inviting  the  doctor  and 
Major  Pellew  had  melted:  after  all,  it  must  have  come, 
sometime.  Perhaps  he  knew  best.  A  strange  feeling 
of  irresponsibility  was  growing  in  her;  nothing  had 
turned  out  as  she  had  planned.  Her  husband's  image  in 
her  mind  had  for  a  long  time  been  so  closely  interwoven 
with  Hugh's  that  she  never  thought  of  him  alone.  Now, 
ever  since  her  meeting  with  Manuel  d'Acunha,  Hugh  had 
faded  away,  and  Manuel  and  Card  became  at  times 
almost  confused  to  her,  especially  when  the  Portuguese 
was  with  them,  which  was  once,  at  the  least,  every  day. 
Lounging  against  her  cushions  in  the  bottom  of  his 
sailboat,  Charlotte's  persistent  ripple  of  conversation 
half  noted,  half  unheard,  she  watched  his  lithe,  strong 
figure  clear  cut  against  the  vivid  blue  of  sky  and  water. 
A  daring  and  experienced  sailor,  he  was  at  his  best 
when  dealing  with  the  sea  he  loved ;  busied  with  sheet 
and  ropes  and  tiller,  he  became  silent,  watchful,  alert. 
This  only  increased  his  likeness  to  Card ;  he  and  she, 
silent  together  amid  Miss  Finister's  cheery  babble,  drew 
closer  together  than  the  few  days  of  their  acquaintance 
warranted.  More  than  once,  half-hypnotized  from  star- 
ing at  the  blue  waves  running  and  clucking  along  the 
gunwale,  she  would  lift  her  eyes  suddenly  to  the  bronzed, 
bearded  face,  dark  above  the  scarlet  neckscarf  and  de- 
liberately try  to  think  it  her  husband's.  Suppose  he 
were  here,  he  and  she,  in  this  boat,  suppose  that  had 
been  he  standing  forward,  poised  so  surely,  bending  so 
supplely,  tugging  so  powerfully  with  his  broad  shoulders  ? 
Then,  as  he  ran  nimbly  along  the  gunwale,  calling  to 
the  efficient  Charlotte  to  mind  the  helm  awhile,  and 
dropped  beside  her,  lifting  those  veiled  European  eyes, 

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steeped  in  their  inscrutable  sadness  beneath  all  the 
mockery,  to  hers,  pity  and  resentment,  irritation  and  re- 
gret would  sweep  over  her :  the  glance  she  gave  him  back 
was  half  of  pleasure,  half  dislike — though  he  could  not 
guess  of  what  nor  whom. 

She  is  not  happy,  the  dear,  dark  one  [he  wrote  to  his 
mother,  his  constant  and  faithful  confidante]  but  make  no 
mistake,  little  mother  of  my  heart,  she  is  no  ordinary  fetntne 
incomprise!  There  is  something  unusual  here.  A  woman 
who  does  not  love  her  husband — bon!  it  is  too  simple.  A 
woman  whose  husband  does  not  love  her — that  is  more  diffi- 
cult, certainly,  but  I  do  not  think  I  could  fail  to  perceive  it. 
A  woman  who  did  not  know,  perhaps 

Do  me  the  favor  to  inquire  of  Frey  Luiz  why,  in  his  opin- 
ion, the  men  of  our  family  must  love  Americans?  And  why, 
also,  if  we  must,  we  may  not  find  them  unmarried?  For 
the  Americans,  Tante  thinks,  are  not  yet  sufficiently  civil- 
ized, as  a  nation,  to  have  learned  how  to  repair  these  little 
mistakes;  they  have  still  the  savage  virtues. 

Miss  Finister,  guided  by  the  tireless  second  cousin, 
went  with  d'Acunha  and  a  few  enthusiastic  newcomers, 
on  a  tour  of  the  island,  sleeping  the  first  night  at  St. 
David's;  and  Evelyn,  for  the  first  time  literally  alone, 
realized  what  a  part  in  her  days  her  husband  had  come 
to  play.  True,  she  was  no  longer  accustomed  to  see 
him  for  any  great  proportion  of  the  time :  his  mornings 
were  entirely  occupied  with  definite  reading,  his  after- 
noons, since  the  sailormen  had  been  impressed  into  his 
service,  were  oftener  passed  with  them  than  with  her. 
In  the  evening,  after  she  had  played  for  them  a  little, 
Hugh  would,  very  probably,  go  on  with  their  turnabout 
reading  of  Dickens. 

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But  he  haa  been  always  there,  always — till  the  sailing 
had  begun — within  a  stone's  throw  of  her  unconsciously 
watchful  eye.  His  voice  had  sounded  through  the  little 
cottage,  its  deep  resonance  (except  in  reading  aloud, 
when  he  imitated  Finister  perfectly)  had  made  the  under- 
current of  the  quiet  sounds  of  their  daily  living.  His 
powerful  shoulders,  so  strangely  untamed  underneath  all 
the  fitted  tailoring;  the  poise  of  his  head,  its  smallness 
giving  that  large-necked,  classic  air  to  the  whole  torso; 
his  great,  competent  hands,  nearly  always  busy  now  with 
mathematical  drawings,  twists  of  rope,  sailing  charts — 
all  these  she  had  but  to  turn  her  head,  at  any  time,  to  see. 
She  had,  literally,  not  eaten  a  meal  alone  since  her  wed- 
ding day. 

And  now,  with  Charlotte's  lemon-covered  novel 
propped  in  front  of  her,  while  Ukada  slipped  the  plates 
noiselessly  back  and  forth,  she  felt  very  lonely,  and 
admitted  it  with  a  wry  little  smile.  She  left  the  table 
abruptly  and  on  an  impulse  stepped  into  Card's  bed- 
room. 

The  bed,  longer  by  six  inches  than  the  ordinary,  and 
lower,  since  he  had  been  used  to  an  army  cot  and  found 
the  height  burdensome,  stood  against  the  center  wall. 
Above  it,  clear  in  relief  against  the  fresh  white  plaster, 
hung  a  large  crucifix,  exquisitely  carved  in  olive  wood. 
She  had  discovered  it  in  the  convent  on  the  Island,  on 
one  of  her  rambles,  and  finding  it  to  be  for  sale,  had 
purchased  it  for  his  birthday.  His  pleasure  in  it  had  been 
great :  she  saw  how  he  must  have  missed  the  one  of  equal 
size  that  had  hung  in  his  cabin,  and  regretted  that  she  had 
not  had  the  thought  to  send  for  that  one,  though  in  her 
heart  she  wished  nothing  of  those  early  surroundings 
mixed  \rith  these. 

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And,  indeed,  nothing  could  well  be  more  unlike  than 
the  two  sleeping-rooms  he  had  known,  she  thought,  not- 
ing the  clear  soft  blue  and  gray  of  the  chintz  she  had 
chosen  for  windows  and  bedcover,  the  light  Chinese  rugs 
on  the  clean,  creamy  matting,  the  handsome,  neatly  be- 
stowed toilet  gear  on  his  dresser.  Instead  of  the  coarse 
lithograph  of  the  Madonna  that  had  met  his  eyes  on 
waking  in  the  woods,  a  beautiful  colored  photograph  of 
Carpaccio's  "Annunciation,"  Hugh's  gift,  hung  above  the 
simple  table-desk  she  had  placed  near  the  window,  in  case 
he  should  prefer  to  work  there.  In  the  place  of  the 
crude  statuette  of  St.  Joseph,  a  lovely  Delia  Robbia  Pieta 
in  blue-and-white  pottery,  bent  over  his  long  chair  in 
a  gracious  semi-circle  of  tender  curve  and  color.  With  a 
whimsical  remembrance  of  the  tin  candlestick  of  the 
cabin,  she  had  hung  on  the  wall  an  old  brass  sconce  with 
three  wax  candles,  picked  up  at  the  Island's  one  curio 
shop. 

A  strange  room,  she  mused,  masculine,  somehow,  in 
spite  of  pale  chintz  (was  it  the  deerskin  he  kept  at  the 
foot  of  the  long  chair,  the  faint  odor  from  his  pipe  on 
the  desk,  the  old  cannon  ball  he  used  for  his  paper- 
weight?) but  curiously  empty  and  austere.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  Christ,  agonizing  forever  above  the  quaint,  low 
bed;  perhaps — and  this  was  more  likely — the  absence  of 
any  photograph  or  trophy,  any  hint  of  connection  with 
friend  or  university  or  family. 

Moved  by  an  impulse  she  dared  not  stop  to  examine, 
lest  it  should  vanish,  she  ran  up  the  stairs,  snatched  from 
her  work-table  a  little  snapshot  photograph  of  herself 
that  Charlotte  Finister  had  taken,  framed  in  the  silver 
frame  she  had  purchased  for  it  to  send  to  Georgie  Stuy- 
vers,  and  stood  it  on  his  desk.  Meeting  Ukada  at  the 

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threshold,  she  started,  flushed,  and  then  recovered  her- 
self quickly.  Why,  from  the  humble  little  Jap's  point 
of  view,  should  she  not  be  in  that  room? 

Long  afterward  she  was  to  remember  with  honest 
self-mockery  her  careful  plans  for  the  day  when  she  and 
her  husband  should  enter  the  world  together.  That  it 
could  be  anywhere  else  but  in  New  York  had  never 
so  much  as  crossed  her  mind.  And  when,  after  Char- 
lotte's welcome  return,  she  left  her,  one  afternoon,  at 
tea  with  Manuel  and  Mrs.  Blaikie,  while  she  walked 
with  Father  Veliac  across  one  of  the  great  Bermuda 
truck  gardens,  to  see  a  sick  pickaninny  whose  condition 
alarmed  him,  returning  to  the  cottage  at  a  quick  pace, 
eager  to  be  with  her  friends  again,  she  was  utterly  taken 
aback  by  the  appearance  of  the  familiar  room.  It  was, 
to  her  startled  eye,  crowded  with  men.  Dr.  Blaikie  sat 
by  his  wife's  chair;  an  unmistakable  soldier,  whom  she 
guessed  to  be  Major  Pellew,  leaned  over  Miss  Finister's 
tea-table  assiduously;  Hugh,  apart  in  a  corner,  fed  bits 
of  sandwich  to  a  massive  puppy,  all  paws  and  melancholy 
eyes,  and  Manuel  d'Acunha,  low  on  a  wicker  stool  like  a 
schoolboy,  sat  at  her  husband's  feet,  his  eyes  sparkling 
as  he  talked. 

What  she  said,  how  she  welcomed  them,  she  never 
could  remember:  the  excitement  of  presentations,  the 
mirth  over  Hugh's  greeting  of  his  sister,  the  uncertainty 
as  to  the  puppy's  movements,  Manuel's  extravagant  chat- 
ter, filled  everyone's  ears. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Card,  if  only  you  could  have  heard  Captain 
Finister !"  cried  Mrs.  Blaikie  hysterically.  "  'Hello,  Shar- 
ley,  how'd  you  get  here  ?'  says  he,  and  then  begins  to  teach 
the  dog  to  eat  sandwiches !  And  they  haven't  seen  each 
other  for  eight  years !" 

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"Nine,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  Hugh  remarked  com- 
posedly. "Down,  sir,  down,  good  dog!" 

"No  wonder  people  think  we  English  are  so  cold," 
the  doctor's  little  wife  fluttered  on.  "I  suppose,  Mr. 
Card,  you  were  quite  shocked?  At  least,  I  was  bad 
enough  over  my  man — wasn't  I,  dearie?" 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Card  are  hardly  in  a  position  to  criti- 
cize a  restrained  greeting,"  said  Manuel  audaciously. 
"Do  you  think  so,  Tante  Carlotta?" 

Evelyn  flushed,  remembering  their  quick  hand  grasp, 
her  hasty,  "Welcome  home,  mon  ami!"  before  the  major 
had  been  led  up  to  her.  She  glanced  swiftly  at  Card; 
he  met  it  with  his  quiet,  open  look,  the  trustful  smile 
he  always  gave  her.  They  all  saw  the  little  interchange, 
and  Evelyn  realized  instantly,  with  a  deepening  color, 
just  what  assured,  understanding  intimacy  they  all  read 
into  it.  She  bit  her  lip  helplessly  and  stood,  almost  in 
defiance,  close  to  his  chair. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be  worried  about  them,  Man- 
uel," said  Miss  Finister  dryly,  and  Evelyn,  more  nearly 
in  awkwardness  than  ever  in  her  life,  took  her  place  at 
her  tea-table. 

In  her  first,  quick,  entering  glance  she  had  perceived 
to  her  great  relief  that  the  resemblance  between  Card 
and  d'Acunha  was  less  than  she  had  thought.  In  color- 
ing and  cut  of  beard  they  were  alike,  and  the  tones  of 
their  voices  were  to  her  ear,  at  least,  very  much  the  same. 
But  her  husband's  size  was  so  much  greater,  his  effect 
of  power  and  quiet  were  so  marked,  that  the  vivacious 
southerner  seemed  all  the  more  boyish  beside  him.  In 
that  first  glance  she  had  seen  with  startling  clearness 
how  incomparably  more  distinguished  than  any  of  the 
men  her  husband  was.  Neither  the  major,  himself  a 

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fine  type  of  his  Service,  nor  Blaikie,  with  all  the  quiet 
confidence  of  the  successful  physician,  nor  Hugh,  with 
his  keen  profile  full  of  race,  compared  with  Card.  Miss 
Finister  was  openly  entranced  with  her  host  and  said  as 
much  freely. 

Evelyn,  sipping  her  tea  in  silence,  had  time  for  much 
quick  thought.  First,  the  blessed  relief  of  these  English 
people,  who  didn't  expect  to  be  "entertained,"  but  sunk 
in  themselves  or  each  other,  attended  to  their  own  wants : 
life  in  the  afternoon,  even  in  New  York,  had  not  quite 
ceased  to  be  a  "function"  of  some  sort  or  other,  she 
realized.  Then  it  came  to  her  how  perfectly  at  home 
and  at  his  ease  her  husband  seemed.  He  was  at  least 
as  talkative  as  the  major,  who  rarely  spoke  unless  ad- 
dressed; he  surely  was  as  much  en  rapport  with  his 
guests  as  Hugh,  who  had  retired  utterly  into  the  cares 
of  a  dog-trainer;  while  his  very  regardlessness  of  his 
pupil  showed  that  he  felt  no  responsibility  of  that  sort. 
Manuel  and  Miss  Finister  were  naturally  so  ebullient 
that  no  emptiness  nor  pause  was  possible  with  them 
about;  and  Dr.  Blaikie's  quiet  ease  would  have  united 
any  company. 

By  now  it  was  apparent  to  her  that  these  two  com- 
panions of  her  husband's  little  voyage  had  been  marvel- 
ously  selected.  The  silent  officer,  impenetrable  to  any 
shade  of  novelty,  incapable  of  noting  any  differences 
among  his  civilian  acquaintance  short  of  startling  table 
manners  or  anarchistic  opinions,  must  have  proved  the 
best  possible  companion;  the  tactful,  sympathetic  little 
doctor,  accustomed  to  every  type  and  degree  of  in- 
validism,  its  whims  and  abstractions  and  exactions,  must 
have  been  agreeably  surprised  at  the  few  gaps  left  for 
his  tact  and  sympathy  to  fill. 

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Indeed,   there  was  a  genuine  reproach  in  his  tone. 

"Really,  Mrs.  Card,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  scold  you 
a  little — you  see,  I  am  quite  used  to  scolding  the  ladies ! 
— for  keeping  your  good  husband  so  quiet  here,  all  this 
time?  He  may  have  exaggerated  the  necessity  (though 
I  must  say  I  never  saw  anyone  so  unconscious  of  his 
affliction,  and  with  such  a  magnificent  physique,  it  be- 
comes more  unfortunate  than  usual)  but  how  could  you 
have  yielded  to  him?  There  are  too  few  chances  for 
meeting  a  man  of  his  type  on  our  little  island,  for  us  to 
have  missed  him  so  long!" 

Her  tongue  uttered  the  usual  pleasant  banalities:  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her  husband — "So  touching,"  said 
Mrs.  Blaikie.  "One  sees  she's  utterly  bound  up  in  him. 
Did  you  notice,  dearie,  how  she  watched  every  move- 
ment he  made?  I  suppose  she  can't  realize  that  he's 
improving  so — she  certainly  gave  me  to  understand  that 
he  couldn't  see  anybody!" 

Major  Pellew  pulled  at  his  drooping  mustache. 

"Can't  see  how  we  ever  missed  knowin'  Gard,  'pon  my 
word,  I  can't,"  he  ejaculated  brusquely.  "Never  en- 
joyed a  cruise  so  much — I  give  you  my  word.  Just 
tellin'  Miss  Finister  so.  "Tisn't  often  one  takes  such  a 
likin',  you  know.  Extraordinary.  Old  Finister's  in 
luck,  what?" 

Manuel,  whom  his  Tante  Carlotta  thrust  briskly  out 
of  the  door,  "So  that  I  can  have  that  fascinating  Mr. 
Gard  entirely  to  myself,  you  young  chatterbox!"  gave 
Evelyn  a  swift,  malicious  glance,  like  a  spoiled  child, 
who  wonders  how  much  he  may  dare. 

"I  know  now,  cruel  one,  why  you  have  suffered  me!" 
he  murmured,  bowed  over  her  hand  and  hurried  away. 

"So  he  saw  it — it  is  so,  after  all!"  she  thought. 

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XVI 

EVELYN  stood  high  on  a  ladder,  one  hand,  the 
sleeve  fallen  away  as  she  raised  it  to  support 
herself,  showing  the  slender  circle  of  amethyst 
about  her  wrist,  the  other  balancing  a  big  wreath  of 
holly  above  the  pointed  arch  of  the  church  window. 
There  was  a  cheery  bustle  about  her;  young  girls' 
shrieks  of  sudden  laughter,  boys'  gruff  commands,  as 
they  dragged  great  ropes  of  pine  and  laurel  loopwise 
along  the  side  walls,  Father  Vellac's  delighted  chuckle 
as  he  passed  from  group  to  group,  rubbing  his  hands, 
with  words  of  praise  for  everyone.  He  was  in  the  seventh 
heaven,  the  good  man — for  the  first  time,  he  was  to  have 
a  really  fine  midnight  mass  on  Christmas  eve. 

Evelyn  was  completely  hidden,  except  for  her  hand, 
by  the  great  loops  of  greenery,  and  the  voices  that  floated 
up  to  her  had  a  curious,  impersonal  effect:  she  seemed 
somehow  quite  out  of  the  world. 

"It's  Mrs.  Card  who  planned  the  whole  general  scheme 
— Father  Vellac  simply  dotes  on  her.  What  ?  Not  know 
the  Teddy  Cards?  Why,  my  dear,  I  think  they're  the 
most  interesting  people  in  Bermuda!  He's  a  perfect 
duck,  Mr.  Teddy  Card — so  awfully  sympathetic,  you 
know." 

The  white  hand  with  the  amethyst  band  about  the 
wrist  halted  a  moment ;  the  big  wreath  trembled  slightly. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  know  her  so  well — I'm  a  little 
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afraid  of  Mrs.  Teddy  myself.  She's  mighty  good  look- 
ing, don't  you  think?  But  a  little  too  New  York-y  for 
me.  I'm  perfectly  disgusted  they're  going  abroad.  But 
Mr.  Card  is  crazy  to  get  to  Rome,  they  say.  I  don't 
wonder,  I  suppose  they'll  do  anything  for  him  there. 
I  asked  him  once  if  he  had  ever  thought  of  being  a 
priest — he  gives  you  a  sort  of  feeling,  you  know  .  .  . 
and  he  admitted  he  had — just  imagine  him  a  monk, 
my  dear!  I  suppose  that  was  before  he  met  Mrs. 
Teddy." 

The  wreath  was  adjusted  now.  Evelyn  began  to  climb 
down. 

"She  was  a  New  York  society  girl,  Miss  Finister  told 
me — she's  related  to  the  Schermers  and  the  Jays,  knows 
the  Gelatlys.  A  Miss  Jaffray — papa  knew  her  father 
at  Annapolis.  Of  course  they're  not  Catholics,  that  set. 
Some  people  can't  see  why  she  married  him — they  seem 
to  have  so  little  in  common — but  I  understand  it  perfectly, 
my  dear.  Those  cultured  sort  of  men,  rather  grave,  you 
know  and  Oh,  sort  of  above  things,  the  way  a  great 
student  is,  if  you  see  what  I  mean,  they  often  attract 
a  gay  sort  of  girl  who's  tired  of  running  about,  and 
dances,  and  all  that  .  .  .  Oh,  I  understand  perfectly!" 

The  high-pitched  Baltimore  voice  ceased  and  Evelyn 
backed  down  the  ladder. 

"Papa  says  it's  an  awful  sacrifice — what  do  you  sup- 
pose he  means?"  floated  back  to  her  as  the  two  girls 
disappeared  in  the  little  crowd:  she  had  no  idea  who 
they  were. 

Card  sat  up  near  the  chancel,  tirelessly  weaving  yard 
upon  yard  of  greenery  with  the  great  ropes ;  his  marvel- 
ous dexterity  was  the  amazement  of  them  all.  About  him 
little  groups  of  his  friends  gathered  and  broke  and 

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formed  again ;  Hugh  and  two  sailors  poised  giddily  above 
the  choir  labored  at  the  fixing  of  the  topmost,  final  star. 

Everyone  was  contented,  it  seemed,  but  herself ;  no  dis- 
satisfaction, no  lack  anywhere — but  in  her  own  troubled 
mind.  And  yet,  why  should  she  be  troubled?  She  had 
long  ago,  she  said  to  herself  a  little  bitterly,  relinquished 
any  idea  of  directing  her  husband's  life :  the  simple  path 
she  had  laid  down  for  them  had  long  ago  branched  off 
in  so  many  turnings,  that  she  had  ceased  to  feel  any 
certainty  as  to  their  destination,  even.  How  completely 
we  are  at  the  mercy  of  chance  she  was  proving  daily. 
Accident  had  brought  a  group  of  Baltimoreans  to  Ber- 
muda; accident  had  thrown  them,  good  Catholics  as  they 
were,  into  Father  Vellac's  fold;  accident  had  made  her 
husband's  first  friends  among  people  who  were  perfect 
strangers  to  her.  Her  mother's  steady  policy  of  utter 
ignorance  as  to  her  father's  connections  and  acquaintances 
deprived  her  of  any  common  ground  with  the  retired 
naval  officers  Finister  had  added  to  the  group.  The 
cordial  ease,  the  quick  intimacy  of  these  friendly  south- 
erners required  none  of  the  adjustments  she  had  ex- 
pected to  make ;  the  chasms  she  had  precisely  the  training 
to  have  filled  simply  didn't  exist.  Accustomed  from 
her  birth  to  a  society  founded,  supported  and  directed 
by  women,  she  found  herself  subtly  but  surely  absorbed 
into  a  background  where,  for  one  reason  or  another,  men 
set  the  tone. 

Not  she,  but  Hugh  and  Dr.  Blaikie  and  the  major, 
had  shaped  the  mold  of  her  husband's  social  experience ; 
a  group  of  people  of  whose  traditions  she  was  utterly 
ignorant  had  given  him  his  first  indelible  impressions  of 
the  interlocking  human  interests  that  make  a  city's  social 
atmosphere.  It  occurred  to  her  with  remorseless  cer- 

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tainty  that  a  man  whose  first  and  devoted  friends  were 
of  the  caliber  of  Finister,  Pellew,  the  naval  officers, 
the  brilliant  Viennese  surgeon  from  Johns  Hopkins,  was 
little  likely  to  tolerate  long  intercourse  with  Vandy  Scher- 
mer  or  Willy  Rice  or  Ogden  Jay. 

"I  can't  quite  fancy  your  husband  in  New  York," 
Christine's  Philadelphia  friend  had  said,  casually,  one 
afternoon;  "wouldn't  he  like  Boston  better — or  Wash- 
ington ?" 

It  had  seemed  a  mad  idea  to  her  then.  But  of  one 
thing  she  was  now  firmly  convinced:  if  Card  should 
not  care  for  New  York  he  would  not  stay  in  it. 

At  the  solemn  midnight  Mass,  kneeling  between  his 
chair  and  d'Acunha's  reverent,  supple  figure,  the  chat- 
tering crowd  of  the  daylight  awed  and  emotionalized, 
now,  out  of  all  resemblance  to  themselves,  the  heavy 
odor  of  the  pine  penetrating  her  senses,  she  stared  at 
the  winking  candles,  lost  to  the  everyday  life.  How 
different  this,  from  the  prim  little  holly-garnished  Christ- 
mas morning  air  of  Bleeckpits!  She  understood  now 
that  she  had  confused  the  festival  with  ribbon-tied  pack- 
ages and  the  hereditary  largesse  that  an  estate  like  Bleeck- 
pits demanded.  It  had  seemed  to  her,  vaguely,  a  day  for 
children  and  servants.  This  pomp  of  anticipation,  this 
naive  surrender  to  emotion — no  wonder  that  her  hus- 
band's new  friends  saw  nothing  different  in  him,  since 
they  were  all  so  alike  in  this  traditional,  basic  bond! 

She  had  known  that  a  famous  baritone  had  gladly 
offered  his  services  for  the  occasion,  that  the  little  organ 
had  been  supplemented  by  the  richness  of  'cello  and  violin, 
that  the  convent  choir  were  joyous  in  the  possession  of 
a  new  Sister  who  had  lately  taken  her  rich  contralto  from 
a  protesting  stage.  But  she  was  utterly  unprepared  for 

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the  thrill  that  tingled  through  her  as  the  mellow  bari- 
tone broke  on  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  dark. 

"Minuit,  Chretiens!     C'est  I'heure  solennelle.  .  .  /' 

The  same  shiver  of  anticipation  ran  through  them 
all — the  Governor's  first  aide,  the  Viennese  surgeon, 
Card's  valet,  Baltimore's  greatest  heiress  and  the  maid- 
servants from  the  hotel.  Whatever  their  birth,  they 
waited  hand-in-hand  together  for  the  great  Birth  of 
Christendom.  The  violin  seemed  a  very  harp  of  heaven ; 
the  'cello  moaned  for  the  sins  and  weariness  of  all  the 
earth.  Something  seemed  to  stretch  and  melt  in  Eve- 
lyn's breast;  the  humble  church,  soaked  and  stained  with 
so  many  simple  prayers  and  tears,  threw  its  spell  over 
her;  she  bowed  her  head  in  her  hands  to  hide  her  tears. 

A  touch  upon  her  shoulder  roused  her;  her  husband's 
hand,  light,  but  firm,  had  fallen  there.  For  the  first 
time  since  that  day  in  the  ocean  his  contact  was  not  un- 
pleasant to  her.  She  glanced  quickly  up  at  his  face 
above  her  in  the  chair ;  his  eyes  were  dilated,  intent  upon 
the  altar,  his  right  hand  fingered  his  worn  little  rosary 
unconsciously.  His  thought  was  not  upon  her,  for  he 
was  drawn  up,  out  of  her  reach.  His  left  hand  rested  on 
her  shoulder  as  it  might  rest  on  any  perturbed  child, 
the  instinctive,  calming  gesture  of  a  kindly  nature.  It 
was  as  if  a  priest  had  soothed  her. 

And  just  then,  at  that  moment  and  no  ether,  began  the 
dim,  shapeless  rebellion  in  her  that  was  to  rend  her 
spirit  for  so  long.  Although  she  did  not  understand  it, 
although  she  could  no  more  analyze  it  than  we  analyze  the 
creeping,  aching  fever  that  mounts,  foreboding,  through 
the  veins,  there  grew  in  her  the  feeling  that  only  on  those 

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terms  could  she  endure  his  touch — and  yet  that  she  re- 
sented the  fact  that  this  touch  was  only  what  it  was ! 

This  irrational  resentment,  the  subtle  cruelties  of  it, 
the  undreamed  depths  of  it,  opened  like  a  dark,  sudden 
pit  before  her  startled  mind. 

"What  shall  I  do?  God,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  whis- 
pered softly  to  herself.  Indeed,  it  was  easy  to  talk  to 
God  just  now:  this  Church  of  His  was  filled  with  Him. 
All  around  her  were  moving  lips,  beseeching  hands. 

"Adeste,  fideles!"  cried  a  great  contralto  voice  like  a 
trumpet. 

"Adeste  fideles!"  shrilled  the  children.  Her  hand 
dropped  to  her  side  and  fell  into  a  warm  hand  that 
grasped  it  firmly,  so  firmly  that  a  ring  on  the  little  finger 
pressed  too  hard  into  her  flesh  and  hurt  her.  It  was  the 
last  touch  to  the  confusion  and  tumult  of  her  breast :  with 
just  that  unconscious  cruelty  Card  had  been  used,  at 
first,  to  hurt  her  with  his  own  ring,  in  shaking  hands. 
His  intent  profile  was  before  her  dazed  eyes,  her  mind 
held  nothing  but  her  warring  thoughts  of  him — but  her 
chilled  hand  nestled  with  the  first  thrill  of  such  a  clasp 
that  she  had  ever  felt,  in  Manuel  d'Acunha's  eager 
hand. 

Every  pulse  of  the  blood  through  it  gave  her  calm, 
each  of  his  fingers  soothed  her — "I  understand!  I  un- 
derstand !"  they  seemed  to  say.  Sensations  she  had  never 
known  flooded  her:  for  one  throbbing  moment  she  felt 
the  eternal  hunger,  the  eternal  gratification  that  feed  the 
roots  of  life.  Never  again  could  she  be  ignorant  of  the 
great  tide  that,  dual-natured,  sweeps  away  from  the 
shore  of  life  as  love  of  God,  then  draws  resistlessly  back 
as  human  passion. 

There  in  the  little  scented,  lighted  church,  she  had 
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caught  from  the  touch  of  one  man  at  her  side  the  first 
glimpse  of  God's  nearness  she  had  ever  known ;  from 
the  touch  of  another  she  had  learned  that  beat  of  pulse 
on  answering  pulse  which  is  the  measure  of  the  blood  of 
the  human  race. 

Alone,  among  them  all,  she  walked  by  Hugh,  silent, 
incapable  of  distinct  thought,  under  the  wonderful  star- 
sown  sky.  Her  whole  nature,  awakened  brusquely, 
rocked  to  conflicting  swells  of  emotion:  she  was  sat- 
urated, like  a  sponge,  with  mere  sensation,  the  old  Eve- 
lyn drowned  in  the  new. 

Nor,  after  a  long  dreamless  sleep,  a  plunge  into  re- 
storing oblivion,  did  she  seem  to  herself  quite  the  same. 
An  intense,  electric  pallor  darkened  her  eyes,  reddened 
her  lips  mysteriously;  they  regarded  her,  all  of  them, 
with  covert  interest. 

As  they  sat  about  the  little  fire  in  the  cheery,  hearth- 
stone atmosphere  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  Christmas,  waiting 
for  the  carols  at  the  quaint  little  English  church,  and 
the  Christmas  prizes  to  be  distributed  among  Hugh's 
schoolchildren,  Evelyn  noticed  that  Card  rubbed  unsuc- 
cessfully at  his  ring,  which  too  faithful  work  among  the 
sticky  spruce  boughs  had  covered  with  an  obstinate 
coating. 

"You  can  never  manage  that,  mon  ami,"  she  said.  "Let 
me  give  it  to  Swenson  to  clean  for  you  in  alcohol." 

He  drew  it  off  with  difficulty,  and  dropped  it  into 
Manuel's  waiting  hand.  The  young  man,  at  first  rapt  and 
silent  with  the  emotions  of  the  Mass,  had  rebounded 
with  true  Latin  resiliency,  and  had  kept  them  laughing 
since  luncheon.  Now,  as  he  turned  the  ring  in  his  hand, 
on  his  way  to  the  waiting  Japanese,  who  stood  in  the 
door,  he  reversed  it  on  the  little  pivot  where  the  chased 

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body  swung  like  a  scarab,  glanced  carelessly  at  the  in- 
side, and  checked  suddenly,  like  a  pointing  dog. 

Evelyn,  who  was  looking  at  him  as  he  crossed  her  line 
of  vision,  noticed  the  quick,  excited  pallor  of  his  cheek- 
bones above  the  line  of  the  carefully  shaped  beard. 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me,  cher  ami, 
where  you  got  this  ring?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Card,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  midnight  ec- 
stasy, barely  raised  his  eyes. 

"It  was  my  father's,"  he  said  indifferently.  "I  had  it 
from  him." 

"But  where  did  your  father  get  it?"  Manuel  persisted, 
his  voice  so  altered  that  they  all  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"That  I  don't  know,"  Gard  replied.  "He  always 
wore  it." 

"May  one  inquire,"  Charlotte  began,  a  little  satirically, 
for  the  Mass  had  kept  her  awake  longer  than  she  liked, 
"why  Mr.  Card's  ring  appears  to  concern  you  so,  my 
dear  Manuel?  It  looks  to  me  like  any  other  handsome 
seal  ring — it  is  not  so  different  from  your  own,  for  that 
matter." 

"That — that  is  just  the  point,"  Manuel  said  thickly, 
walking  back  to  them  and  glancing  hastily  about  at 
Ukada,  who  retreated  like  a  shadow. 

"This  ring — here,"  he  shook  it  slightly  on  his  open 
palm,  "is  the  facsimile — precisely — of  my  own,  even  to 
so  slight  a  detail  as  my  mother's  family  crest!" 

They  stared  doubtfully  at  him. 

"Why,  how  interestin' !  Let  me  see  them  both,"  Char- 
lotte began,  but  d'Acunha  went  on  as  if  she  had  not  in- 
terrupted. 

"Mine  has  been  one  hundred  fifty  years  in  our  fam- 
ily," he  said,  "and  there  was  not  supposed  to  be  an- 

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other  but  one,  that  is  known  of,  made  at  all.  But  it  was 
not  on  a  hinge,  for  the  two  were  made  alike." 

He  moved  closer  to  Gard  and  there  was  something 
altered  in  him,  a  little  hint  of  menace  that  they  all  felt. 
He  seemed,  suddenly,  a  tropical  bird,  out  of  place  in  the 
homely  English  Christmas  holly. 

"Monsieur  Teddy  Gard,"  he  said,  half  mocking,  half 
angry,  "may  I  desire  that  you  explain  to  me  how  it  is 
that  your  father  wore  my  mother's  family  crest — and 
turned  the  crest  inside?" 


XVII 

EVERYONE  in  the  room  watched  Card — everyone 
but  one  person,  his  wife.  For  some  reason  Eve- 
lyn would  not — because  she  could  not — look  at 
him,  or  even  in  his  direction.  A  strange,  muffled  beating 
in  her  side  taught  her  that  she  was  terrified — at  what? 
She  did  not  know. 

"Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  this,  Mr.  Teddy  Card?" 
Manuel  repeated.  "Why  had  your  father  that  ring?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Card  quietly,  and  with  his  quiet, 
level  tones  the  tension  broke,  and  they  all  breathed  evenly 
again. 

"If  I  knew,  d'Acunha,  I  would  tell  you.  But  I  do 
not.  It  was  a  ring  my  father  always  wore,  and  when 
he  died  I  began  to  wear  it.  That  is  all." 

He  smiled  pleasantly  at  the  young  man,  who  relaxed 
instantly,  smiling  back  at  him,  and  still  fingering  the 
ring. 

"How  perfectly  extrao'd'n'ry,"  remarked  Charlotte 
easily.  "Get  it  cleaned,  do,  Manuel,  and  tell  us  about 
it.  How  did  there  happen  to  be  two?  Whose  was  the 
other?  You  know,  Americans  are  always  turning  up 
with  those  sort  of  things !  Don't  you  remember,  Manuel, 
your  mother  had  that  Wreckenham  porringer  for  years, 
and  fed  you  pap  out  of  it,  till  I  fairly  shamed  her  into 
sending  it  over  to  the  Wreckenhams?  Her  father  got 
hold  of  it,  somehow,  and  she  always  had  such  a  fancy 

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for  it.  Lord  Wreckenham  was  too  delighted — it  was 
made  for  his  grandfather.  'Twas  all  in  his  great-grand- 
mother's diary.  But  Cora  never  knew  where  her  father 
picked  it  up." 

"I  remember  ...  I  remember  perfectly,"  said  Manuel 
thoughtfully.  To  Evelyn  it  had  seemed  that  the  friendly 
Charlotte  was  talking  against  time,  merely,  but  a  swift 
glance  at  all  their  interested  faces  showed  her  that  she 
had  exaggerated  the  necessity.  The  Portuguese  was  evi- 
dently impressed  by  the  coincidence  his  beloved  Tante 
had  brought  forward,  and  nodded  his  dark  head  thought- 
fully. 

"Quite  true,  quite  true,"  he  said.  "Someone  must  find 
the  things  one  loses,  riest-ce  pas?  But  I  do  wish  that 
my  friend  Teddy  Card  had  remembered  a  little  more!" 
he  burst  out  childishly.  "Your  father  bought  it,  of 
course  ?  It  interested  him,  as  a  curio  ?" 

"That  I  cannot  say,"  Card  repeated  patiently.  "As  a 
little  boy  I  always  saw  it  on  his  hand.  I  never  asked. 
I  wish  for  your  sake,  now,  that  I  had,"  he  added  with 
his  grave  smile. 

Evelyn  drew  a  long  breath.  It  seemed  as  though  a 
cloud  that  had  hung  for  a  moment  over  the  room  had 
melted  away. 

"Tell  us  about  the  other  ring,  Manuel,"  said  Charlotte, 
yawning  slightly.  "I  must  keep  awake  till  tea!" 

"The  other  ?"  d'Acunha  repeated  vaguely.  "The  other, 
Tante  Carlotta?  Oh!  This  is  the  other,  stupid  one! 
There  is  nothing  to  tell  about  grandmamma's.  It  be- 
longed to  her  uncle.  He  had  a  twin  brother  and  the 
rings  were  made  for  them.  She  was  a  Teixera,  and 
there  were  no  brothers,  so  her  uncle  left  her  his  ring — 
she  was  named  for  him,  Manuela.  The  other,  my  great- 

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granduncle,  you  see,  he  was  said  to  have  been  a  pirate. 
Not  that  I  know,  but  that  is  what  was  said." 

"How  charming,  Manuel !"  cried  Charlotte. 

"Yes,  is  it  not  ?  Alas,  none  of  us  are  pirates  now !  It 
is  not — what  do  you  say? — it  is  not  done.  But,  anyway, 
my  great-granduncle,  he  ran  away  (there  was  some  quar- 
rel or  other)  and  he  never  came  back.  His  old  nurse  told 
my  grandmother  that  he  carried  off  a  girl  from  a  fishing 
settlement  in  America,  and  kept  her  on  his  ship,  but  she 
never  knew  for  certain.  Not  that  I  do  not  believe  it, 
however,  for  in  my  family,  do  you  see,  in  every  other 
generation,  at  least,  we  marry  Americans." 

They  stared  at  him,  surprised,  but  he  evidently  saw 
nothing  unusual  in  the  statement. 

"God  knows  why,  but  we  do,"  he  repeated  dreamily. 
"You  see,  I  am  half  American.  And  grandpapa  married 
a  Creole — from  the  south  of  America  (but  not  South 
America,  you  understand!)" 

"Then  you  won't  have  to?"  Hugh  asked,  laughing. 

"Mon  dieu,  the  only  Americans  I  wanted  to  marry 
were  married  already!"  sighed  Manuel. 

"You're  an  absurd  imp — you  and  your  pirates !"  cried 
Charlotte.  "Here  is  Mr.  Card's  ring — may  we  see  it, 
Mr.  Card?" 

He  bowed  gravely.  It  was  evident  that  he  felt  hap- 
pier with  the  ring  on  his  finger,  and  they  passed  it  about 
quickly.  It  was  beyond  any  question  the  facsimile  of 
Manuel's,  but  that  it  had  been  put  on  a  delicate  swivel, 
like  a  scarab,  and  bent  slightly  convex  to  fit  over  the 
lower  joint.  On  the  shining  gold  surface  was  carved  the 
spread  claw  of  an  eagle  and  a  single  word,  half  legible. 

"It  is  bad. Latin,"  Manuel  explained,  as  they  puzzled 
over  it.  "We  are  rather  proud  of  it,  do  you  see,  it's 

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being  so  bad.  It  means,  'I  snatch.'  My  father  much 
prefers  it  to  his  own  crest,  which  is  a  foolish  kind  of 
horse's  head,  like  everybody's.  These  twins  were  born 
in  the  year  1800,  and  my  grandmother  has  a  letter  they 
wrote  her  about  Napoleon,  whom  they  saw  just  before 
he  was  sent  to  Elba.  He  patted  their  heads." 

"He  probably  admired  the  crest,"  Charlotte  suggested 
cheerfully. 

"But  I'm  afraid,  my  dear  boy,"  she  went  on,  "that  I 
shall  never  persuade  Mr.  Card  as  I  did  your  mother,  and 
that  you'll  never  get  back  your  great-granduncle's  ring, 
eh?" 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  said  Card  seriously.  "It  is  all  I 
have  of  my  father's." 

"Are  you  like  him?"  Miss  Finister  inquired  suddenly. 

"I  think  so,"  he  answered  quietly,  "though  he  was 
larger  than  I." 

"Great  heavens!     How  tall  was  he,  then?" 

"He  said  once  he  was  six  feet  five  inches  tall,"  said 
Card,  "and  strong — I  never  saw  a  man  so  strong." 

"I  should  love  dearly  to  have  seen  him,"  said  Charlotte 
simply.  "I  love  big  men." 

Card's  eyes  rested  on  hers  with  the  wide,  frank  gravity 
of  sweetness  that  won  to  him  instantly  every  soul  to 
which  he  bared  his  own  in  one  of  those  looks. 

"I  wish  you  had  known  him,"  he  said.  "He  was  a  very 
fine  man.  The  best  man  .  .  ." 

Charlotte's  kind  eyes  filled  with  tears,  meeting  his. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure!     I'm  sure!"  she  murmured. 

"No  one  but  him  ...  he  took  all  the  care  of  me," 
Card  went  on  gravely.  "He  lifted  me,  he  rubbed  my 
back,  he  moved  my  chair  out  into  the  woods,  he  used 
to  carry  me  about  when  I  was  restless  ...  he  let  no  one 

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see  me,  no  one  at  all.  You  see,  he  was  afraid  that  I 
should  be  pitied  .  .  .  perhaps  laughed  at  ...  my  poor 
father!" 

"And  your  mother?"  Charlotte  asked  gently.  "She 
was  .  .  ." 

"I  never  saw  my  mother,"  he  answered,  "to  remem- 
ber her. 

"The  first  thing  I  can  remember  is  my  father  bringing 
me  a  little  gray  squirrel  in  a  cage.  My  father  and  the 
woods — those  are  my  first  memories." 

They  were  silent,  all  of  them,  moved  immensely  by 
the  deep,  patient  voice. 

And  Evelyn,  too,  was  moved,  but  not  as  the  roomful 
about  her.  A  strange,  dull  discomfort  smoldered  in  her 
and  grew,  through  the  little  respectful  silence,  into  a  dis- 
tinct, gnawing  pain.  What  was  it,  why  was  it  ? 

Soon  she  knew:  she,  nearest  to  this  man  of  all  of 
them,  she  to  whom  alone  his  pathetic  words  could  bring 
up  any  adequate  picture,  she  had  never  heard  him  speak 
like  this!  With  every  reason  for  such  confidence,  he 
had  never  given  it  to  her,  but  had  spoken  first  of  his 
father,  the  only  memory  of  his  life,  to  Charlotte  Finister, 
a  stranger! 

She  wished  it  had  been  to  Hugh :  that  he  should  have 
won  Card's  heart  was  only  fair.  What  had  he  not  done 
for  him!  But  she  could  see  from  the  look  of  keen  in- 
terest on  Hugh's  face  that  this  mood  of  her  husband's 
was  as  new  to  him  as  to  her.  No,  it  was  Charlotte's  sym- 
pathy, her  unaffected  womanly  sympathy,  that  had  opened 
those  sealed  fountains :  it  was  her  natural,  friendly  ques- 
tioning that  had  eased  his  big  heart. 

"If  he  had  wanted  to  talk  about  his  father,  he  might 
have  done  it  to  me,"  she  thought  bitterly,  and  then: 

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"Did  you  ever  ask  him  to?"  she  demanded  of  herself. 

Too  late  she  realized,  in  a  growing  glare  of  light 
that  spread  through  her  soul  as  inevitably  as  the  dawn 
spreads  over  the  trembling  sky,  too  late  she  bit  her  lips 
to  perceive  that  her  desire  to  bury  the  past  had  made 
her  presence  and  personality  a  very  tombstone.  For  what 
is  a  man  but  his  memories  and  his  thoughts?  The  one 
she  had  ignored,  the  other  she  had  tried  to  supply — had 
the  one  proved  as  great  a  failure  as  the  other?  Under 
the  smooth  relentless  turf  of  her  determined  gardening 
spread  the  catacombs  of  a  soul  as  strange  and  unknown 
to  her  as  on  the  day  she  met  him:  its  vaults,  its  altars, 
its  votive  tablets — all,  all  unknown! 

She  seemed  to  herself  suddenly  a  child,  playing  with 
dynamite,  confident  that  she  could  control  it  because  she 
had  arranged  the  mysterious  sticks  in  regular  patterns  in 
a  box  .  .  .  she  shook  her  head  at  such  nervous  fears — 
surely  she  was  exaggerating!  She  was  not  herself  to- 
day. Because  a  man  spoke  of  his  father  .  .  . 

But  in  her  deepest  heart  she  knew  that  the  midnight 
Mass  had  plowed  her  soul  and  harrowed  it  to  a  state 
ripe  for  all  such  seeds  of  thought  and  feeling.  From 
now  on  she  was  nearer  the  truth  of  things:  God  had 
brushed  her  soul,  a  man  had  pressed  her  hand,  and  flesh 
and  spirit  quivered  yet  from  the  contact. 

But  the  two  men  through  whom  these  revelations  had 
come  to  her  sat  beside  her  utterly  unconcerned,  it  ap- 
peared, after  experiences  that  tautened  and  relaxed  her 
nerves  as  children  stretch  and  release  a  band  of  India 
rubber,  for  amusement.  Card,  so  accustomed  to  God's 
touch  that  its  transference  to  another  soul  must  seem 
wholly  natural  to  him ;  Manuel,  so  practiced  in  the  thrill 
of  women's  hands  that  one  such  experience,  more  or 

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less,  could  be  completely  driven  from  his  mind  by  a 
discovery  of  an  accident  in  ancestral  rings — her  cheeks 
burned  and  paled,  emotions  she  had  only  guessed  at  up 
to  now  swung  her  loose  from  all  her  moorings  of  cool 
self-reliance. 

All  through  the  placid  little  service  of  hymns  and 
holly  boughs  her  mind  tossed  restlessly;  Charlotte's  vi- 
vacity annoyed  her,  d'Acunha's  bent  brows,  his  ceaseless 
wonder  over  the  two  rings,  chafed  her  like  wool  rubbing 
against  her  skin.  Mrs.  Blaikie's  rapturous  shouts  over 
expected  boatloads  of  friends  forced  upon  her  the 
amazed  consciousness  that  she  did  not  want  to  meet 
them :  she  wanted  to  be  alone.  Alone  ?  How  unreason- 
able, when  she  was  on  the  eve  of  that  very  extension 
of  their  social  circle  that  she  had  so  longed  and  planned 
for !  Alone  ?  When  long  before  she  could  have  hoped, 
she  could  show  her  world,  no  matter  how  critical,  a  man, 
not  only  of  distinction,  but  of  a  charm  so  great  that 
everyone  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  acknowledged  it 
instantly!  But  there  was  no  blinking  it:  alone  she 
must  be. 

She  told  herself  that  common  prudence  suggested  ab- 
sence from  Manuel,  who  would  certainly  pursue  inde- 
fatigably  the  matter  of  the  Teixera  rings.  She  told  her- 
self that  even  though  the  clew  to  their  connection  was 
safe  in  Vrooman's  hand,  the  amazing  legacy  of  the 
Gelatlys  to  an  obscure  Adirondack  guide  was  too  great 
a  temptation  to  the  curiosity  of  a  curious  city:  her  hus- 
band's utter  indifference  to  such  unusual  circumstances 
could  not  continue  forever,  with  increased  familiarity  with 
the  world's  standards. 

She  herself  was  convinced,  she  could  not  see  but  that 
Vrooman  must  be  convinced,  of  Mrs.  Gelatly's  intention 

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to  bestow  the  imitation  pearls  (themselves  a  small  for- 
tune, considering  their  destination)  to  the  man  who  had 
undoubtedly  saved  her  life.  And  yet,  in  that  case,  was 
their  possession  of  the  real  pearls,  not  to  say  honorable, 
legal  ?  But  no  one  had  ever  hinted  anything  but  a  scrupu- 
lous honor  in  connection  with  James  Vrooman  or  the 
great  legal  firm  he  represented.  He  would  never  have 
been  a  party  to  a  fraud;  a  case,  too,  when  he  had  not 
the  remotest  interest  or  gain  at  stake — he  administered 
every  year  estates  of  a  many  times  greater  value.  Then, 
did  he  believe  that  Eulalia  Gelatly  had  deliberately  in- 
tended to  make  such  an  enormous  gift?  True,  he  knew 
her  better  than  many  people  who  claimed  the  uncertain 
honor;  there  was  no  doubt  that  it  had  been  difficult  to 
overestimate  her  eccentricity,  her  curious  mixture  of  im- 
pulsive comet-flights  and  shrewd  longheadedness — she 
had  been,  like  her  famous  husband,  an  international 
puzzle. 

"You  are  not  the  first,"  she  had  said  to  the  wife  of 
an  English  cabinet  minister,  "to  laugh  at  my  daughter — 
and  go  out  to  dinner  behind  her!" 

And  the  mot,  aimed  at  one  of  the  rudest  women  in 
England  (an  admitted  eminence)  had  been  hailed  with 
delight  and  quoted  by  Royalty  at  her  own  table! 

She  had  sued  a  world-famous  dressmaker  for  an  over- 
charge of  thirty-five  pounds  and  won  her  case — and  she 
had  collected  more  money  for  the  Boer  War  than  any 
Englishwoman  and  was  at  one  time  the  toast  of  the  Brit- 
ish Army !  Could  anyone  dare  to  say  how  such  a  woman 
would  reward  the  man  who  had  saved  her  life  from  a 
drink-mad  husband? 

This  admitted,  Evelyn  faced  the  resulting  question: 
granted  that  Cissie  Huddlington  believed  her  pearls  to 

219 


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be  genuine,  as  indeed  she  must,  to  have  accepted  them 
from  her  father,  was  there  not  a  constant,  nerve-wrack- 
ing risk  of  discovery  at  any  time,  in  any  place?  It  was 
hard  to  believe  otherwise  and  admit  any  knowledge  of 
life  and  that  freakish  goddess,  Chance!  The  relations 
between  mother  and  daughter  had  not  been  always  idyllic, 
by  any  means;  neither  was  an  uncompromising  foe  to 
publicity,  to  put  it  mildly.  Both  had  the  tempers  of 
demons,  in  the  unprejudiced  phraseology  of  husband  and 
father.  Had  it  been  Mrs.  Gelatly's  last,  Napoleonic  gam- 
ble? Her  characteristic,  posthumous  "bluff"?  In  that 
case,  how  the  rage  of  her  duchess-daughter  would  pur- 
sue her!  To  their  countrywoman,  pondering  on  the 
problem,  no  spot,  as  little  in  hell  as  in  heaven,  seemed 
to  offer  any  reliable  refuge  from  the  Teixera  temper ! 


XVIII 

HAVE  you  thought,  mon  ami,  when  you  would 
like  to  go  abroad?" 
Hugh,  at  his  sister's  request,  had  taken  her 
off  for  the  day  on  one  of  the  battleships,  and  Evelyn 
and  Card  were  alone  at  luncheon.     This  situation  had 
become  such  a  rarity  with  them  that  she  wondered  if  he 
thought  of  it:  he  did  not  show  any  consciousness  of  it, 
if  such  were  the  case. 

His  eyes  lighted.  His  great  chest  heaved,  as  always 
with  him  in  excitement.  He  laid  down  his  fork  with  the 
accurate,  careful  gesture  she  had  grown  so  accustomed 
to  as  not  to  notice,  and  smiled. 

"When?"  he  repeated  eagerly.  "When,  Eve-Marie? 
If  I  went  when  I  chose,  I  should  say  to-morrow!" 

An  unreasonable  irritation  surged  over*  her. 

"Why  do  you  not  tell  me  these  things  ?"  she  demanded 
brusquely.  "It  only  vexes  me  when  I  find  them  out  so 
late.  You  must  have  known  that  you  were  the  one  to 
decide?" 

His  mild  surprise  at  her  tone  brought  the  red  to  her 
forehead. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  quickly.  "I — I  did  not 
know.  I  hope  never  to  vex  you.  We  thought  you  would 
say  when  you  were  ready :  we  waited  for  that." 

"We?" 

"Hugh  and  I,"  he  answered  simply. 
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"I  see." 

To  save  her  life  she  could  not  have  avoided  the  dry 
tone. 

"Tell  Hugh,  please,  that  we  will  start  as  soon  as  the 
sailings  can  be  arranged  and  the  house  closed,"  she  said, 
and  left  the  room. 

"What  is  this,  what?"  she  demanded  furiously  of  her 
heated  body,  her  misted  eyes — nor  guessed  that  it  was 
jealousy,  one  of  many  emotions  hitherto  new  to  her. 

Charlotte,  whom  no  sudden  decision  as  to  travel  could 
surprise,  promptly  offered  to  take  the  cottage  off  their 
hands ;  she  doted  on  the  Island  and  found  that  the  climate 
precisely  suited  her  winter  bronchitis.  Manuel,  having 
only  recently  loudly  announced  the  vital  necessity  for  his 
staying  indefinitely,  in  order  to  look  over  the  available 
American  heiresses,  could  not  well  embark  for  Rome, 
as  Evelyn  had  feared  he  might  decide  to  do:  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  admit  that  she  must  put  distance  be- 
tween herself  and  Manuel. 

"I  had  no  idea  Ted  was  so  keen  about  sailing,"  she 
said  easily,  when  Hugh  had  returned.  "Personally,  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  get  away.  I  don't  think  it's  agree- 
ing with  me,  quite.  I — I  seem  so  irritable  lately." 

"I've  noticed  you  weren't  quite  the  thing,"  he  said 
soberly.  "Well,  you've  had  six  months  of  it,  you  see.  I 
think,  myself,  it's  relaxing." 

Six  months?    Only  six  months? 

It  seemed  to  Evelyn  that  she  had  lived  for  years  in 
that  little  white,  chintz-hung  cottage. 

Standing  alone  on  the  deck  of  the  big  English  liner, 
trim  and  warm  in  her  long  fur  coat,  her  dark  eyes  search- 
ing the  tumbling  gray  sea,  she  sought  the  reason  for 
this.  Was  it  Card's  rapid  progress,  his  wonderful  re- 

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sponse  to  Hugh's  molding  touch  ?  Or  had  there,  perhaps, 
been  more  in  his  mind  than  she  knew?  Had  she  laid 
too  much  stress  upon  the  uncouth  diction  of  the  woods- 
man, his  ugly  habits  of  knife  and  fork?  Certainly,  she 
had  underestimated  his  strength  of  will,  his  concentra- 
tion of  mind  upon  what  he  wished  to  learn,  his  eager 
desire  to  please  her  and  Hugh. 

She  had  pictured  this  voyage,  when  it  should  finally 
come,  as  one  long  week  of  instruction,  herself  the  fount 
of  all  his  new  knowledge  of  the  history  and  art  he  was 
to  taste  at  their  very  source.  Instead,  alone  for  long 
hours  while  the  two  men  worked  at  the  reading  with 
which  during  the  six  mornings  of  the  week  Card 
allowed  nothing  to  interfere,  she  walked  by  his  chair, 
after  luncheon,  Hugh  pushing  it,  listening  meekly  to 
endless  discussions  upon  navigation  with  the  second  of- 
ficer, who,  like  the  captain,  gave  so  grateful  a  listener 
as  this  curiously  powerful  invalid  much  of  his  time.  At 
tea  the  officers  wanted  him;  Hugh,  at  home  on  every 
ship,  scorned  the  ordinary  traveling  public,  and  made  his 
friend  free  of  the  mysteries  of  chart  room  and  ma- 
chinery; there  were  plans  for  getting  him  onto  the 
bridge.  After  dinner  he  played  chess  with  a  cameo- 
profiled  English  priest,  an  ardent  Catholic  convert: 
Swenson  had  to  drag  his  master  to  bed  at  incredible 
hours,  so  fascinated  he  was  by  problems  far  past  Eve- 
lyn's modest  powers. 

Leaning  over  the  rail  she  smiled,  a  little  bitterly,  at  the 
thought  of  how  he  had  passed  her  there,  too.  She  had 
taught  him  the  game  to  cover  the  embarrassment  of  a 
rainy  day  in  their  Canadian  hotel,  and  had  encountered 
one  of  her  first  surprises  in  the  ease  with  which  he  had 
mastered  it.  Its  combinations  precisely  suited  his  mathe- 

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matical,  contemplative  mind;  he  invented  moves  she 
had  never  learned,  asked  questions  far  beyond  her  depth, 
and  in  a  few  weeks  was  working  out  problems  with 
Hugh  and  Pere  Vellac. 

The  gray  waves  rose,  swelled,  broke  in  foam;  miles 
of  empty  water  rushed  by.  How  strange  her  life  was ! 

The  amethyst  bracelet  fell  over  her  warm  glove,  and 
Vrooman's  shrewd,  concealing  face  hovered  before  her; 
when  should  she  see  him  again?  He  had  liked  her— - 
liked  her  very  much.  Why  had  she  not  known  this  last 
summer — for  she  had  not  realized  it  as  she  did  now. 
She  saw  his  eyes  as  they  had  met  hers  in  that  last  mo- 
ment on  the  little  platform  at  the  junction,  and  read  in 
them  now  as  she  had  not  then.  There  was  something 
.  .  .  one  man  had  it  for  you,  and  another  had  not  .  .  . 
she  had  never  known  it  till  now.  Take  Hugh,  for  in- 
stance: Hugh  had  been  interested  in  her  that  spring  in 
Bermuda  with  Cousin  Sue.  They  had  walked  together ; 
he  had  told  her  his  plans,  his  thoughts.  He  found  her 
handsome  and  clever,  now,  but  there  was  nothing  in  his 
eyes  .  .  .  other  women,  more  accustomed  to  many  men, 
had  always  known  these  things,  probably. 

But  how  had  she  learned  them  ?  Certainly  not  through 
her  husband.  He  looked  upon  her  as  a  ...  as  a  ... 
how,  indeed,  did  her  husband  look  upon  her  ?  No  longer 
as  a  teacher;  scarcely,  now,  as  an  adviser.  A  sort  of 
beneficent  goddess,  perhaps;  the  never-to-be-forgotten* 
fairy  godmother  of  his  liberty  ?  Something  like  that :  he 
was  never  for  a  moment  forgetful  of  all  he  owed  her. 
His  eyes,  when  they  met  hers,  showed  that  even  in  his 
dreams  the  man  was  grateful.  But  it  was  not  through 
him  that  she  had  the  touchstone  of  her  new  knowledge. 

Then,  for  there  was  only  one  more,  was  it  Manuel 

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d'Acunha?  The  question  was  foolish,  for  she  knew  that 
it  was.  His  arm  about  her  in  a  dance,  her  hand  in  his, 
as  she  stepped  into  a  boat,  his  voice  in  a  roomful,  as  she 
entered,  his  blue  eyes,  laughing  above  the  pointed,  curling 
little  beard,  at  the  end  of  the  street — Oh,  these  had 
taught  her  her  place  in  the  kingdom  of  woman,  the  de- 
sired ! 

Not  for  a  moment,  she  told  herself,  did  she  take  the 
boy  seriously.  He  was  only  twenty-eight — ten  years 
younger  than  her  husband,  who  seemed  perhaps  a  little 
older  than  his  age,  through  his  dignity  and  isolation  from 
other  men.  She  felt  more  of  a  common  age  with  James 
Vrooman.  Manuel's  airy  adoration,  however,  patent  to 
anyone  who  cared  to  observe  it,  had  flattered  her  more 
than  Tante  Carlotta  could  guess:  how  was  she  to  know 
that  this  kinswoman  of  the  Bleecks  and  Schermers, 
placed  in  a  society  whose  men  had  long  forgotten  Puri- 
tanism, was  not  at  least  as  practiced  in  week-end  flirta- 
tions as  Georgie  Stuyvers?  Georgie  would  have  han- 
dled the  sophisticated  young  Portuguese  in  much  the 
same  way,  and  American  women  were  notoriously  cold. 
Not  the  least  flattering  element  in  Manuel's  devotion  had 
been  the  well-seasoned  Charlotte's  conviction  that  Eve- 
lyn was  well  used  to  such. 

He  was  in  no  haste,  this  artist  in  his  own  emotions. 
The  sudden  announcement  of  her  sailing,  thrown  at  him 
in  the  midst  of  a  dinner  at  the  hotel  before  a  dance, 
brought  only  one  quick,  deep  glance,  a  tiny  shrug,  the 
slightest  pressure  of  her  hand  as  he  swung  her  into  the 
new  syncopated  waltz  rhythm. 

"You  are  so  anxious  to  leave  us,  then?  It  seems  we 
have  not  learned  how  to  keep  you!" 

"On  the  contrary,"  she  had  smiled,  "you  have  kept  us 
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OPEN    MARKET 

far  longer  than  we  had  planned.  My  husband  has  been 
eager  for  Rome  for  many  years.  He  has  never  been 
there,  you  know." 

"Ah,  the  good  Teddy  Card!  You  will  lose  him  yet 
to  the  Black  Brothers,  Eve-Marie!" 

"That  is  my  husband's  name  for  me — as  I'm  quite  sure 
you  don't  forget,"  she  said. 

"I  know — I  wanted  to  be  able  to  ask  you  to  forgive 
me  something!"  he  murmured,  like  a  naughty  child. 
"But  seriously,  dearest  lady,  I  have  been  all  my  life 
among  the  holy  men,  do  you  see,  and  Monsieur  Teddy 
gives  me  so  often  the  same  feeling  .  .  .  not  in  looks, 
bien  entendu,  for  he  looks  like  a  sea  rover,  your  lord 
and  master!  But  there  is  a  something,  a  something  .  .  . 
one  cannot  say  it,  but  one  feels  ...  a  quality  of  the 
mind,  perhaps  .  .  ." 

She  was  entirely  a  match  for  his  daring. 

"I  know.  It  has  been  noticed.  He  thought  of  it, 
once,"  she  answered  calmly,  swaying  perfectly  from 
shoulder  to  ankle,  almost  breathing,  in  unison  with  him, 
so  well  did  their  steps  suit  each  other. 

"And  then— he  met  you?" 

"And  then— he  met  me." 

"One  sees  why  there  are  so  many  priests,"  he  said, 
laughing  into  her  eyes  in  a  crowded  pause. 

Staring  into  the  tumbling  water  she  saw  all  this,  felt 
his  light,  strong  arm  about  her. 

"I  am  always  in  Rome  for  the  spring,"  he  remarked. 
"I  hope  I  may  find  you  there." 

"I  can't  tell  at  all  where  we  shall  be — I  hope  so,  of 
course,"  she  had  replied  serenely,  and  the  music  ended 
and  they  fell  apart. 

Now  she  was  away  from  him  and  the  touch  of  his 

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hand,  away  from  Charlotte,  with  her  tea  parties  and 
chatter,  away  from  Dr.  Blaikie  and  Major  Pellew,  who 
took  it  for  granted  that  her  husband's  days  should  be 
passed  with  them,  leaving  her  free  for  boys'  and  women's 
gossip  (she  discovered  that  she  had  grown  to  dislike  the 
two  friendly  Englishmen)  and  now  she  could,  she  must, 
begin  that  companionship  with  Card  that  circumstances 
seemed  to  have  conspired  to  make  impossible. 

Swenson's  stocky  figure  approaching  reminded  her  of 
a  queer  impression  she  had  had  for  some  time  that  the 
man  wanted  to  speak  with  her:  an  unreasonable  idea, 
surely,  for,  of  course,  he  was  perfectly  free  to  do  so. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  that  his  pale  gray  eyes  searched 
her  face,  then  dropped  respectfully,  only  to  lift  again 
when  she  looked  away;  sometimes  she  was  certain  that 
he  had  made  an  occasion  to  consult  her,  then  relinquished 
the  chance,  as  if  doubtful  or  afraid.  In  her  tense, 
troubled  mood  trifles  bulked  larger  to  her,  and  as  the 
man  asked  her  quietly  if  she  could  tell  him  of  his  master's 
whereabouts,  as  the  captain  had  sent  for  him  to  show 
him  an  interesting  observation,  she  studied  his  almost 
expressionless  face  carefully. 

"I  think  Mr.  Card  is  with  Father  Dessars,"  she  said, 
"playing  chess.  Is  there  anything  you  wanted  to  speak 
to  me  about,  Swenson?" 

She  thought  he  changed  color. 

"Madame,  yes,"  said  he,  hesitating  a  little.  "I  have 
thought,  sometimes,  of  late,  now  and  then," — he  paused 
find  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Yes?  You  have  thought?"  she  helped  him.  He  had 
not  the  manner  of  a  servant  about  to  give  notice  of  de- 
parture; his  wages  were  more  than  fairly  paid. 

"It  is  only  .  .  .  but  I  will  speak  of  it  later,  perhaps," 
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OPEN    MARKET 

he  concluded  with  evident  relief,  as  one  of  the  young 
officers  bore  down  upon  her.  That  he  had  any  other 
than  some  private  trouble  never  occurred  to  her. 

They  docked  at  Tilbury,  and  Evelyn,  excited  a  little 
with  the  bustle  and  lights,  the  mellow  English  voices, 
the  sense  of  a  new  future,  lost  a  little  of  the  languor 
that  had  been  upon  her.  As  she  drew  the  rug  over  her 
knees  in  the  compartment  Hugh  had  secured  for  their 
party,  which  now  included  Father  Dessars,  for  whom 
Card  had  taken  a  strong  fancy,  she  smiled  at  the  dif- 
ference of  the  reality  of  this  embarking  for  a  new  city 
from  the  picture  in  her  mind  when  she  had  made  her 
bargain  in  that  far-away  cabin  in  the  woods. 

Where  was  the  busy  young  woman  upon  whose  com- 
petent direction  hung  all  the  comfort  of  the  shy,  un- 
traveled  husband?  Idle  as  a  dowager  duchess  she  sat, 
her  hands  deep  in  her  great  muff  of  black  lynx  fur,  her 
chin  buried  in  the  luxurious  scarf,  while  Hugh  and 
Swenson,  every  step  prearranged,  every  detail  foreseen, 
filled  the  seat  with  fruit  and  sandwiches,  hot  coffee 
and  illustrated  magazines.  The  comfort  in  which  London 
wraps  her  upper  classes  spread  over  her,  the  smooth 
machinery  that  needs  only  Bank  of  England  notes  to  keep 
it  whirring  noiselessly,  reached  out  and  caught  her  and 
drew  her  into  its  shining  center.  What  was  there  for 
her  to  do? 

No  timid  stranger  hid  behind  her  wing:  a  man  of 
wealth,  the  wealthy  city  welcomed  him ;  a  devout  Catho- 
lic, the  convert  son  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Eng- 
land waited  only  the  moment  to  present  him  to  the  most 
distinguished  leaders  of  his  Church  over  Channel ;  inti- 
mate friend  of  an  Englishman  who  knew,  through  his 
Service  and  his  people,  half  England,  he  had  no  need 

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of  the  letters  with  which  the  eager  Charlotte  had  stuffed 
his  pockets.  What  was  there  for  Evelyn  Card  to  do? 
The  utter  irony  of  life  beat  in  upon  her. 

The  English  priest  had  placed  at  their  disposal  his 
brother's  suite  of  rooms  in  the  comfortable  family  man- 
sion his  kinsfolk  provided  for  two  bachelor  sons,  and 
Hugh,  placating  the  Admiral's  lady  by  a  dutiful  lodging 
at  her  house,  agreed  that  there  was  no  hurry  for  Rome, 
and  set  about  the  peaceful  digestion  of  the  fatted  calf 
assured  him  by  his  interesting  new  connection  and  his 
book,  accepted  for  publication  in  the  near  future.  Card, 
delighted  with  London,  completely  satisfied,  now,  with 
the  one  quality  of  friendship  Hugh's  unobtrusive  agnos- 
ticism could  not  supply,  cared  little  where  he  traveled, 
or  when :  life  spread  before  him,  rich  in  promises. 

Unaware  of  the  unusual  in  his  character  and  qualities, 
unconscious  of  the  picturesque  values  of  his  leonine  head 
and  magnificent,  immobile  body,  he  sat  peacefully  in 
the  little  eddy  of  admiration  and  interest  that  began  to 
surge  around  his  chair,  smiling  gravely  at  the  clustering 
scented  women  that  hung  about  the  favorite  aristocrat 
of  the  Mother  Church,  delighted  with  the  new  note  he 
had  brought  into  their  old  tunes  of  so  many  seasons ;  lis- 
tening eagerly  to  the  worldwise,  tactful  dignitaries  that 
spent  themselves  so  generously  for  his  entertainment  and 
counsel.  And  among  the  Spode  and  Chelsea  ware,  the 
old  ivory  prints  and  the  Jacobean  chairs  of  Hilary  Des- 
sars,  Oxford  flaneur,  essayist  and  Eastern  traveler,  Eve- 
lyn moved,  silent  and  attentive  alike  to  the  guests  in 
sable  wraps  or  Cardinal's  robes,  serving  Dessars'  cara- 
van tea  behind  the  bowls  of  gardenias  and  pots  of  early 
hyacinths.  A  handsome  woman,  well  dressed,  like  all  the 
Americans,  pale  in  her  mauve  velvet  and  yellow  lace, 

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they  found  her  perfectly  adequate  and  quite  impene- 
trable :  an  effective  background  for  her  remarkable  hus- 
band— the  scholar-giant,  somebody  wrote  Hilary,  then  in 
Egypt. 

"Nonsense !  He  is  the  Farnese  Hercules  reincarnated 
in  St.  Augustine,"  said  Audrey  Dessars,  and  the  phrase 
flew. 

She  had  eyes  as  green  as  hazel-nuts,  a  white,  incan- 
descent skin,  and  a  yard  of  soft  red  hair.  She  had  been 
painted  and  sonneted  and  maligned  since  her  first  season, 
ten  years  ago,  and  no  one  dared  to  marry  her.  Evelyn, 
whom  she  called  "Cornelia — without  her  jewels,"  detested 
her,  and  went,  in  her  company,  to  houses  whose  names, 
reported  in  New  York,  caused  Nelly  Schermer  to  open 
her  eyes  behind  her  platinum  lorgnette. 

"If  only  Georgie  had  half  Evelyn's  brains,"  she  said, 
—"or  luck!" 

Had  she  luck?    Honestly,  the  girl  did  not  know. 

Nothing  that  she  might  have  planned  for  her  native 
metropolis  could  have  equaled  their  present  triumphs. 
She  had  nothing  to  contrive,  no  one  to  justify:  guest  of 
her  husband's  friend,  she  had  merely  to  melt  into  his  ever 
widening  circle,  to  drift  with  the  current  of  his  broaden- 
ing stream.  Audrey  Dessars,  Lady  Finister,  the  gracious 
Monsignor,  enveloped  her,  as  her  husband's  wife,  and 
carried  her  whither  they  would;  her  letters  from  Bal- 
timore to  Rome  would  be  absurd  now;  they  had  but  to 
choose  when  they  should  arrive,  at  Easter — a  Cardinal 
awaited  them. 

Her  plans  for  a  determined  companionship  with  Card 
had  been  made  too  late,  it  seemed :  engagements  thronged : 
they  were  never  alone. 

Nothing  altered  his  determination  for  morning  study; 

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closeted  with  Hugh  in  Hilary's  library  of  Elizabethan 
oak,  he  worked  for  five  hours  of  every  day.  A  spec- 
tacled German,  full  of  grammars,  arrived  at  ten  on  Mon- 
days, Wednesdays  and  Fridays;  Tuesdays,  Thursdays 
and  Saturdays  a  shy  Italian  waited  in  the  hall.  An  in- 
defatigable student,  the  ladies  whispered,  he  had  made 
a  man  of  Hugh  Finister,  had  undoubtedly  inspired  him 
to  his  book.  It  was  suggested  that  he  was  consecrated 
to  a  monumental  History  of  the  Catholic  and  Apostolic 
Church. 

Audrey,  who  was  reported  the  one  woman  whom  either 
of  her  gifted  brothers  had  ever  loved,  boasted  her 
mother's  the  only  house  in  London  that  had  held  both 
the  Teddy  Cards,  played  him  Chopin  on  her  own  Stein- 
way  and  taught  him  billiards  herself.  His  chair  ad- 
justed to  a  hair's  breadth,  he  made  slow,  steady  strokes; 
his  long,  powerful  arms  spread  over  the  baize. 

"And  a  spiffing  game  he'll  play,  in  time,  y'  know, 
legs  or  no  legs,"  said  the  Honorable  Flacke  Heather- 
slough.  "Auddy's  off  her  nut  about  the  beggar,  abs'- 
lutely.  Fact,  I  assure  you.  Quite  off.  But  his  wife — 
what's  her  name,  now — Cornelia?  They  tell  me  she's 
soft  on  Finister.  Clever  Johnny,  Finister.  Navy  chaps 
all  upset  over  his  book." 

The  curious,  crowded  winter  wore  along.  Evelyn, 
spurred  on,  perhaps  unconsciously,  by  Audrey's  Chopin 
— she  had  been  taught  by  De  Pachmann,  and  imitated 
to  perfection  his  feline  phrasing — began  to  study ,  the 
piano  seriously  and  soothed  herself  most  at  it.  The  hours 
she  had  vaguely  expected  to  spend  with  her  husband- 
pupil  in  the  National  Gallery  she  passed  alone:  sensitive 
to  music,  he  did  not  care  for  pictures.  Evelyn,  who  had 
been  taught  to  find  in  art  the  peace  that  humanity  pre- 
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vents,  marveled  at  the  poise  and  serenity  of  a  life  so 
brutally  harassed  and  handicapped,  a  health  dependent 
on  no  tonic  of  line  greatly  drawn,  no  drug  of  soothing 
color.  But  Father  Dessars,  to  whom  she  brushed  lightly 
on  the  matter,  turned  a  deep,  searching  smile  upon  her. 

"Your  husband  has  the  art  of  a  great  soul,  Mrs. 
Card — religion.  Possessed  in  so  vital,  so  penetrating  a 
degree,  it  leads  the  whole  nature  directly  to  God,  without 
the  by-ways  civilization  has  cut  for  most  of  us,"  he  said. 

"But  you,"  she  began,  unconvinced. 

"Ah,  yes,  I,"  he  answered  subtly.  "I  am  of  an  older 
race,  a  more  complicated  nature.  I  must  have  my  little 
helps,  like  the  rest  of  you.  Edward  Card  is  a  bigger 
man  than  I." 

She  listened  silently. 

"Our  relation,  spiritually,  is  of  incalculable  advantage 
to  me,"  he  went  on.  "It  was  one  of  the  days  of  my  life 
when  I  found  him.  There  are  confessions  one  hears," 
he  added  abruptly,  "that  fill  one  with  a  sense  of  such 
personal  unworthiness,  such  slipping  from  one's  own 
ideals.  ...  I  leave  him,  a  better  man — I  trust  a  better 
priest,"  he  said  simply. 

She  stared  beyond  his  fine  profile,  chiseled  by  centuries 
of  careful  breeding.  Of  all  men,  Francis  Dessars  moved 
her  to  absolute  confidence:  to  him,  more  than  to  any 
man  she  had  ever  met,  she  was  tempted  to  unpack  her 
burden  of  dissatisfactions,  disappointments,  perplexities. 
And  yet,  how  to  do  it  ?  What  was  there  to  tell  ?  What 
had  she  bargained  for  that  she  had  not  got,  with  more 
to  boot  than  she  could  have  hoped?  Why  was  she  so 
detached,  then,  so  useless? 

Francis  studied  her  carefully.  An  expert  in  souls, 
he  perceived  a  sick  one.  Neither  this  woman  nor  her 

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husband  could  be  insulted  by  prying  questions,  and  yet 
the  one,  to  all  appearances  so  helpless,  needed  no  help; 
the  other,  beyond  all  need  of  it,  one  would  suppose,  yet 
showed  herself  to  his  delicate  instinct  a  caged  and  re- 
bellious creature. 

"But  what  can  it  be?"  he  asked  himself,  studying  her 
clear,  dark  beauty. 

"She  was  not  a  child,  not  even  a  young  girl,  when  they 
were  married.  Her  people  are  well  placed  and  wealthy, 
she  has  all  the  manner  of  being  thoroughly  accustomed 
to  the  world;  she  knew  the  poor  fellow's  condition,  and 
that  it  was  hopeless,  before  she  chose  him.  She  had 
plenty  of  time  and  opportunity  to  fall  in  love  with  an- 
other type,  and  evidently  preferred  his.  With  the  tem- 
perament and  the  Hair  for  perceiving  such  a  rare  creature 
as  Card,  it  is  inconceivable  that  she  has  ceased  to  love 
him  in  this  short  time!" 

Now  by  reading  these  thoughts  of  his  down  as  far  as 
the  last  sentence,  one  has  precisely  the  gist  of  Manuel 
d'Acunha's  latest  letter  to  his  patient  mother  in  Lisbon. 
But  the  matter  of  the  last  sentence  was  by  Manuel  en- 
visaged and  interpreted  quite  differently,  since  he  was 
neither  an  intellectual  by  training  nor  an  ascetic  by  birth. 

All  this  being  so  [he  concludes]  it  is  perfectly  clear  that 
the  wonderful,  dear  woman  made  a  great,  if  touching,  error 
of  judgment,  when  she  confused  her  divine  pity  for  a  most 
unfortunate  man  with  the  love  she  is  hungry  to  feel — though 
she  knows  it  not,  little  mother  of  my  heart !  For  then  she 
saw  in  a  glass,  darkly,  as  the  good  saint  says,  but  now  her 
time  is  coming,  and  it  is  face  to  face !  You  may  tell  Frey 
Luiz  how  well  I  recall  my  lessons  in  the  sacred  scriptures. 
I  hope  to  meet  her  in  Rome — when  I  shall  do  as  nearly  as 
the  Romans  do  as  she  will  permit ! 

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Francis  had  not  the  advantage — if  it  were  one — of  the 
Latin's  psychology,  and  to  him  it  was  incredible  that 
there  should  be  any  serious  lack  in  Evelyn's  life — in  her 
case  he  would  have  felt  none.  But  he  was  skilled  in 
every  medicine  of  the  soul  and  he  spoke  to  her  very 
gently,  hoping  to  win  her  to  say  what  she  plainly  wished 
to  say. 

"Do  you  know,  there  is  a  curious  Spanish  quality  in 
your  husband  ?"  he  said.  "I  feel  sometimes  that  it  is  not 
possible  that  I  am  with  an  American — he  gives  one  the 
feeling  of  a  Spanish  nobleman." 

"Spanish?" 

She  stared  at  him  oddly. 

"There  is  no  such  dignity,  you  know,  in  the  world," 
he  said.  "And,  I  believe,  no  people  so  religious.  I  had 
a  Spanish  nobleman  for  my  instructor  when  I  came 
back  to  the  Church — I  say  'came  back/  because  as 
Normans,  of  course,  we  had  not  left  it — and  your  hus- 
band is  more  like  Don  Pedro  than  anyone  else  I  ever 
met." 

"Really,"  she  said. 

"Something  is  wrong,"  he  thought,  "she  will  not  tell 
me,  now,"  and  changed  his  tone. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  ask  you,  Mrs.  Card,  to  do 
something  for  me,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you  will." 

"I  am  sure." 

But  she  was  thinking  elsewhere. 

"There  is  a  little  nursing  home  down  in  the  East  End, 
kept  by  some  wealthy  and  charitable  friends  of  mine," 
he  went  on,  watching  her,  "devoted  to  incurable  disease. 
Some  wonderful  and  tireless  Sisters  tend  it,  and  one 
does  what  one  can,  here  and  there,  to  help  them.  The 
patients  are  particularly  fond  of  music,  and  among  other 

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things  a  piano  has  been  given  us  for  them.  Neither  Sis- 
ter Eustace  nor  Sister  Chrysostom  plays,  and  we  depend 
upon  our  friends  for  one  of  the  greatest  treats  we 
have  for  the  poor  souls.  I  have  been  wondering  if  you 
would  take  the  time  to  come  there  and  play,  some 
afternoon." 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure,"  she  answered  immediately 
and  politely.  "I  will  come,"  she  hesitated,  thought  a 
moment,  "I  will  come  every  Thursday  from  three  until 
four — will  that  be  convenient?" 

He  smiled  and  sighed  together. 

"You  are  more  than  generous,  you  are  American,  my 
dear  friend,"  he  gasped,  "and  I  am  sure  you  mean  it." 

For  the  first  time  she  knew  poverty,  grim,  biting  pov- 
erty, and  physical  suffering  in  all  its  stark  and  unallevi- 
ated  horror.  Side  by  side  with  Francis  Dessars  she 
fought  cold  and  famine  and  racking  pain.  Seeing  him 
thus,  she  saw  him  for  the  first  time.  In  the  tiny  chapel 
that  only  his  friends  knew  he  served,  she  saw  where 
lay  the  real  heart  of  this  smiling  arbiter  of  drawing- 
rooms,  and  marveled.  The  very  expression  of  his  face 
was  altered. 

As  they  talked  over  their  cases  in  the  bare  little  office 
next  his  tiny  sacristy,  where  she  grudged  herself  the 
cheap  tea  in  its  earthen  cup  and  the  thick  bread  that  she 
swallowed  only  because  then  he  would  take  it,  too,  she 
longed  to  dare  to  ask  him  why  he  did  not  stay,  as  she 
knew  now  that  he  longed  to  stay,  with  these  poor  brutal- 
ized dregs  of  humanity  for  whom  he  stood  as  the  last 
hope. 

At  last,  late  in  March,  when  her  tact  and  firmness  had 
saved  him  the  brunt  of  a  particularly  trying  ordeal,  a 
deathbed  so  sad,  so  hopeless  that  she  could  not  bear 

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that  he  should  take  it  all,  nor  that  Sister  Eustace  should 
risk  her  failing  strength,  she  felt  so  close  to  him,  their 
sympathy  was  so  united,  that  she  burst  into  it. 

"Why  do  you  leave,  then?    Why  not " 

"Hush,  my  child — I  am  not  allowed,"  he  said  quickly. 
"No,  no,  it  is  doubtless  best  for  me.  I  am  wanted  most 
elsewhere.  If  it  is  not  always  easy — thank  God  I  am  not 
to  choose." 

A  thrill  of  admiration  shook  her. 

What  a  Church!  What  miraculous  efficiency,  that 
crushed  a  soldier's  dearest  wish  and  left  him  praising! 
Card's  silences  and  meditations  had  made  her  only 
mildly  curious  as  to  what  these  solaces  and  mysteries 
might  be;  the  rigorous  handling  of  this  misunderstood 
aristocrat,  this  urban  confessor  of  fashion's  follies,  com- 
pelled her  deepest  interest. 

"At  your  old  tricks,  Frank  ?"  Audrey  threw  at  him  that 
evening,  an  evening  of  wonderful  chamber  music  at  her 
mother's  house — the  only  house  where  Card  could  be 
found,  for  people  came  to  him;  the  cult  of  his  wheeled 
chair  was  well  established  now,  in  Hilary's  rooms,  aug- 
mented by  a  dining-room  made  from  a  small  disused 
conservatory.  Audrey  had  filled  it  with  lemon  trees  in 
white  Chinese  jars  and  a  gold  cage  of  green  love-birds, 
thick  rugs  from  her  brother's  Persian  wanderings,  a  set 
of  gold  chairs,  Louis  Quinze,  filched  from  the  ballroom, 
and  a  gold-lacquered,  round  table  from  the  dispersed 
sale  of  a  famous  actress.  Heavy  Italian  peasant  ware 
was  the  table  service,  set  out  on  embroidered  strips  of 
her  own  working :  it  was  the  most  extraordinary  dining- 
room  in  London.  The  glass  wall  to  the  south  was  shielded 
with  raw  silk  curtains  of  bright  yellow,  and  ivy  climbed 
over  the  plaster  walls;  the  intention  of  the  room,  she 

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averred  frankly,  was  to  keep  the  Farnese  St  Augustine 
from  Italy. 

"I  thought  you  only  set  your  ladies  at  the  poor  when 
their  devotion  to  your  reverence  became  too  pressing," 
she  added  maliciously,  dropping  onto  the  arm  01  his 
chair. 

"Don't  be  naughty,  Dawdy,  dear,  I'm  tired,"  he  said. 
He  could  never  regard  her  as  other  than  the  child  she 
had  ceased  to  be  at  eleven.  For  him,  as  for  Hilary,  she 
had  never  grown  up. 

"Well,  then,  it  shan't  be  teased,  Beau  Galahad!  But 
you  will  admit,  I  suppose,  that  you  send  them  down  to 
St.  Monica's  to  cure  their  love  affairs?  Because  every- 
one admits  that — Flacke  says  if  the  lady,  only,  is  an- 
other's, it's  district  visiting,  but  if  the  man's  married  too, 
it's  helping  Sister  Chrysostom  with  the  anesthetic!" 

"My  dear  Dawdy!     Why  will  you  say  such  things!" 

She  was  all  in  slim  green  and  crocus  color — "a  witty 
dryad,"  Hugh  Finister  had  called  her. 

"Not  that  there  is  any  danger  of  our  dear  Evelyn's 
requiring  just  that  prescription :  she's  not  in  love  with 
anybody's  husband — not  even  her  own!" 

"Audrey,  I  must  ask  you  to " 

"But,  mon  cher,  regarde-moi  done  cette  belle  ego%ste! 
What  in  the  world  interests  her  besides  herself  ?" 

He  glanced  quickly  at  Evelyn,  standing  as  she  so  often 
did  beside  and  slightly  behind  her  husband's  chair.  The 
position  was  perfect — a  wife  attentive  to  his  possible 
comment :  but  her  brooding  eyes  were  not  on  anything  in 
the  beautiful  music-room,  certainly  not  on  the  four  mu- 
sicians bent  over  viola  and  'cello.  His  honesty  must  agree 
that  they  were  turned  inward :  her  studies  were  not  cen- 
trifugal. 

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"She  has  a  strange  nature,"  he  admitted  involuntarily. 
He  had  always  appreciated  that  even  the  hours  she  gave 
his  poor  did  not  take  her  really  out  of  herself. 

"Americans  are  always  strange — if  not  in  one  way, 
then  in  another,"  she  answered  lightly. 

"But  you  are  fond  oi  her?" 

"Fond?  Of  that  Paquin  statue?  My  dear  Frank,  I  am 
human.  I  require  a  little  more." 

"You  certainly  require  a  great  deal,"  he  shot  at  her, 
and  her  long  eyes  parried  swiftly  like  a  surprised  fencer's, 
"but  I  am  not  always  sure  that  you  are  human,  my 
dear." 

He  left  her  to  chew  upon  this  and  made  a  quiet  way 
to  his  mother.  A  restless,  passionate  woman,  utterly 
individual,  she  had  never  ceased  to  wonder  that  her  chil- 
dren should  have  proved  so  enigmatic.  She  was  known 
to  have  been  the  dearest  enemy  of  Cecelia  Huddlington's 
mother,  though  sufficiently  friendly  toward  the  young 
duchess  herself;  Evelyn  often  played  with  a  foolish 
temptation  to  speak  with  her  of  Cissie's  pearls.  Her 
Grace  was  at  present  exploring  in  South  America. 

"Dawdy's  not  for  the  Riviera,  mother?" 

"Not  unless  the  Cards  go,"  she  answered  briefly.  "You 
see  that  she  never  mentioned  Switzerland,  this  winter. 
This  seems  to  me  more  perverse  than  usual — I  have  no 
patience  with  her,  Frank.  And  American  women  are  so 
— so  unnoticing!  I  suppose  they  are  so  spoiled  at  home 
they  can't  conceive  of  any  necessity.  .  .  .  You  couldn't 
suggest  to  Mr.  Card,  as  his " 

"My  dear  mother,  you  can't  really  wish  to  hurt  me 
seriously?  Because,  one  day,  you  will.  I  came  to  say 
good-night." 

His  family's  only  punishment  for  his  conversion  at 

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thirty,  fifteen  years  ago,  had  been  a  persistent  ignoring 
in  conversation  of  his  holy  office.  Ordinarily  he  baffled 
them  with  a  wit  as  light  as  their  own,  but  when  they 
pushed  too  far,  only  a  direct  apology  would  answer,  and 
the  haggard  woman,  as  vivid  at  sixty-odd  as  she  had 
been  at  sixteen,  pressed  his  hand,  as  supple  and  delicate 
as  her  own,  and  let  her  tired  eyes  rest  a  moment  on  his. 

"Forgive  us,  Frankie,  dear,  and  apologize  to  le  bon 
Dieu  for  us — won't  you?  It's  been  a  worrying  winter. 
Don't  keep  Mrs.  Card  too  busy,  when  the  season  begins, 
will  you?  Audrey  wants  her." 

Before  he  left,  he  looked,  thoughtfully,  at  Evelyn. 
She  was  in  gray  velvet,  a  bodice  cut  square,  severely 
framing  her  fine  shoulders  and  firm,  low  bust.  About  her 
neck  lay  her  only  jewels  but  the  amethyst  bracelet,  a  fine, 
close  necklace  of  the  same  violet  stones  with  an  ex- 
quisitely cut  cross  of  them  hanging  from  it.  The  cross 
was  larger  than  would  be  ordinarily  worn  and  gave  her 
a  faint  suggestion  of  belonging  to  some  order:  she  had 
the  air  of  an  untamed  abbess.  The  necklace  had  been 
a  birthday  gift  from  Charlotte  Finister,  who  persisted 
in  regarding  her  as  her  brother's  regeneratress,  and  Man- 
uel, she  wrote,  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  add  the  cross. 
She  owned  no  other  ornaments. 

"I  must  be  'fey'  to-night,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  his 
eyes  dropping  to  Card's  face,  a  little  below  hers  as  he 
sat,  placid  and  distinguished,  unconscious  of  anything 
but  the  throbbing  minor  of  Tschaikowsky's  most  beauti- 
ful quartet.  "I  am  certain  that  something  is  going  to 
happen  to  them !  I  wish  I  had  never  had  a  Scotch  grand- 
mother!" And  in  the  lozenged  marble  hall  he  crossed 
himself  lightly. 


XIX 

IT  was  thick  with  damp  when  Evelyn  and  Card 
reached  the  street.  As  she  sometimes  preferred  to 
do,  she  walked  home  to-night  by  the  side  of  his 
chair ;  Swenson,  as  he  pushed  it,  bent  over,  trying  unsuc- 
cessfully to  muffle  his  racking  cough.  For  a  fortnight 
the  man  had  suffered  from  a  feverish,  wasting  influenza : 
obstinate  to  all  advice,  he  had  kept  his  cough  concealed 
by  means  of  soothing  tablets  at  which  he  sucked  con- 
stantly, but  to-night  the  penetrating  damp  caught  his 
lungs  and  it  was  impossible  to  pretend  any  longer  that 
he  had  at  last  got  the  better  of  it. 

"Come  to  me,  please,  after  you  have  Mr.  Card  settled/' 
said  Evelyn,  and  his  sheepish  "ires  bien,  madame," 
showed  that  he  was  prepared  to  yield  to  reason. 

"This  can't  go  on  any  longer,  Swenson,"  she  said  de- 
cidedly, as  he  stood  before  her,  relieved  now  by  the 
warm  air  of  the  house  and  his  anise-scented  tablets. 
"I  shall  ask  Father  Dessars  if  we  may  use  one  of  the 
bedrooms  on  an  upper  floor  and  you  must  go  to  bed. 
Mr.  Finister  will  get  someone  to  help  Mr.  Gard,  and 
he  can  look  after  you,  too,  for  a  few  days." 

"I  shan't  need  help,  madame;  I  have  had  these  colds 
before,"  he  answered  doggedly.  "Of  course,  I  shall  go 
upstairs  if  you  wish  it " 

"I  do  wish  it,"  she  said.    "Good-night,  Swenson." 

But  he  did  not  turn  to  go. 

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"Madame,"  he  said  hurriedly,  twisting  his  hands,  "I 
must  tell  you  something.  Not  that  I  am  certain — Oh,  no ! 
and  well  I  understand  that  it  may  be  a  great  shock.  It 
is  hard  to  know  what  to  do,  and  no  one  knows  better  than 
I  how  fine  the  American  doctors  are.  So  that  is  why  it 
troubled  me,  when  I  began  to  think." 

"What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  said  Evelyn,  yawning  a 
little.  She  knew  how  excited  a  servant  can  grow  in 
sickness. 

"Don't  take  fancies,  Swenson,  a  grippish  cold  like 
yours  only  needs  reasonable  care — any  doctor  can  treat 
it." 

"No,  no,"  he  said  hastily,  raising  his  voice  above  his 
ordinary  monotone.  "It  is  not  of  my  cough  at  all  that 
I  am  speaking.  That  is  nothing.  What  I  am  saying  is, 
how  long  is  it  since  the  doctors  consulted  about  Mr.  Card, 
madame?  How  long  before  I  came?" 

"Mr.  Card?  Consulted?  What  do  you  mean?"  she 
asked,  puzzled.  "Mr.  Card  is  never  ill — you  know  that 
as  well  as  I." 

"No,  no,"  he  began  again,  "not  illness — I  am  not  speak- 
ing of  illness.  I  mean  the  weakness — the  limbs.  Could 
they  consult  again?  He  need  not  know,  perhaps  .  .  . 
they  must  have  done  it  many  times,  and  he  need  not  sup- 
pose ...  of  course,  I  know  that  it  would  be  cruel  to 
give  any  hope  till  they  have  seen  for  themselves.  I  sup- 
pose electricity  has  often  been  tried,  but  I  should  like  to 
show  them " 

She  grasped  the  knob  at  the  end  of  her  oaken  chair 
till  the  nail  of  her  thumb  bent  and  broke.  The  color 
sucked  out  of  her  face,  then  poured  back  in  a  sheet  of 
red. 

"Swenson!"  she  cried  in  a  whisper,  "you  don't  mean 
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that  you — you  cannot  believe  that  there  is  any  possi- 
bility  " 

"I  should  like  you  to  talk  to  the  doctors,  madame,"  he 
interrupted  excitedly.  "I  know  it  is  a  great  liberty  for  one 
in  my  place  to  take,  after  all  they  have  tried — I  am  only 
a  Swede  masseur.  I  know  that.  But  I  say,  look  at  the 
• — the — Oh,  I  am  so  stupid  with  this  grippe,  I  forget  my 
words — the  column  of  his  spine,  I  think  you  say?  I 
learned  anatomy  in  Swedish.  .  .  .** 

He  was  confused  and  frightened;  the  fever  of  his 
heavy  cold  grew  in  him. 

"Go  on,"  she  said  quickly.  "Never  mind — I  understand 
you — speak  English  if  you  prefer  to.  What  about  the 
spinal  column?" 

"It  is  all  there,  you  see,"  he  began  in  English,  which 
he  used  more  freely  than  French,  though  with  a  stronger 
accent.  "Madame  knows,  of  course,  that  it  is  not  the 
legs,  at  all,  but  the  spine  ?  The  nerves,  yes  ?  The  spine 
is  king.  Well,  from  the  very  first  I  said  to  myself, 
'Swenson,  this  is  a  queer  thing,  this  spine  of  Mr.  Card 
— what  is  wrong  with  it?'  I  knead  it  and  I  pick  it  in 
pieces  and  I  pick  up  the  nerves  and — well,  I  am  damned 
if  I  can  see,  that's  all.  Excuse  me,  please,  madame " 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  she  said. 

"One  day  in  Bermuda  I  strained  my  wrist — I  could 
not  rub  him  as  hard  as  he  likes.  I  asked  Ukada  to  help 
me — Madame  knows  how  clever  they  are,  les  Japonais? 
I  told  Ukada, 

"  'Give  M.  Card  your  Japan  way — as  you  treated  my 
wrist.' 

"Ukada  worked  him  all  over  and  hurt  him  a  little — 
he  complained.  He  didn't  like  it. 

"  'You  go  too  hard,  you  fool,'  I  said,  and  Ukada  shook 

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his  head  to  me.    'All  right,  all  right,'  he  said,  'I  am  learn- 
ing something.' 

"  'What  do  you  think  ?'  I  asked  him  afterward. 

"  'I  think  your  man  could  walk,  if  he  only  knew  it,' 
he  told  me,  'but  you  can  never  make  him  believe  it.  He 
is  too  heavy  and  too  big.' 

"  If  I  spoke  of  it,'  said  I 

"  'You  would  lose  a  good  place,  if  he  got  a  bad  fall/ 
Ukada  told  me.  'He  is  too  old.'  " 

Evelyn's  lungs  filled  as  he  ceased  speaking  and  she 
realized  that  she  had  not  breathed  since  he  began.  She 
sat  stiff*  in  the  high,  carved  chair,  her  big  eyes  black  in 
her  pale  face,  fixed  sternly  on  his  eyes,  lighter  than  ever 
above  the  black  rings  around  them.  His  breath  whistled 
in  the  quiet  room;  red  patches  glowed  on  each  broad 
cheekbone. 

"So  I  thought  I  would  keep  quiet  and  try  all  I  could, 
without  him  knowing.  I  rubbed  him  every  day  in  the 
warm  salt  water — rubbing  under  water  is  a  fine  thing, 
madame — the  swimming  with  his  arms  was  strengthening 
for  the  back,  I  knew. 

"Once  I  gave  a  hint  to  Mr.  Finister,  but  he  was  angry 
with  me. 

"  'Don't  speak  of  such  a  thing,  Swenson,'  he  told  me ; 
'a  man  in  your  master's  place,  who  has  had  the  knowledge 
of  the  finest  surgeons  in  the  world,  the  Americans,  since 
he  is  a  boy?  His  mind  is  settled  to  it — it  is  for  us  to 
do  what  we  can,  so  he  forgets  it,  not  to  raise  false  hopes. 
And  we  are  not  to  excite  Mrs.  Card  and  make  her  suffer. 
You  mean  well,  my  man,  but  let  it  alone.' 

"So  I  saw  he  agreed  with  Ukada." 

He  stopped  to  cough  and  she  tried  to  bring  order  into 
her  whirling  thoughts. 

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How  wonderful!  Could  it  be?  What  a  thought  for 
him — what  a  future ! 

"But,  after  all,  Swenson,  you  have  no  proof,  only  your 
own  idea,"  she  began,  talking  low,  now,  as  if  Gard  could 
hear. 

"Wait!  Wait!"  he  cried.  "Listen  to  me.  While  we 
were  on  Captain  George's  boat,  I  took  off  a  little  from 
his  crutches,  at  the  bottom.  That  brought  his  feet  a  little 
bit  too  near  the  floor — the  deck.  They  dragged,  and  he 
hated  that. 

"  'What  is  this,  Swenson  ?'  he  asked  me,  and  I  said,  'It 
must  be  the  slant  of  the  deck,  sir.  Raise  up  from  your 
shoulders.' 

"Of  course  he  could  not  do  this,  so  what  does  he  do  ?" 

He  leaned  forward  and  shook  his  finger  at  her  rapidly. 

"Mr.  Edward  Gard  held  his  feet  to  fit  that  deck, 
madame,"  he  said,  through  his  wheezing  breaths.  "He 
made  them  fit  the  short  crutches,  and  not  drag.  Tell  his 
doctors  that!" 

"But,  Swenson,  that  might  not  mean " 

"It  means  that  the  weakness — la  paralyse — is  here, 
madame,"  he  touched  his  forehead,  "not  here,"  and  he 
struck  his  thigh  with  his  shaking  hand.  "He  has  the — 
the  idee  fixe.  He  has  had  it  many  years.  A  surgeon — 
the  greatest — who  would  not  know  it,  would  be  a  fool. 
And  I  would  say  it,  if  I  lost  a  dozen  places — a  hundred !" 

"It  need  not  lose  you  this  place,  Swenson,"  she  sa'id 
quietly,  to  calm  his  agitation,  which  was  growing  un- 
pleasant to  her.  She  was  controlled  now,  mastering  her 
wonder,  her  excitement,  in  her  own  capable  way. 

"You  have  not,  of  course,  spoken  of  this  to  anyone?" 

"Oh,  madame,  no !" 

"We  must  not  have  Mr.  Gard  alarmed  or  annoyed.  If 

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it  is  as  you  say,  there  are  physicians,  surgeons,  who  can 
tell  us  quickly.  I  know  nothing  of  these  things,  but  it  is 
possible,  I  suppose,  that  a  change  may  have  come,  in — in 
Bermuda " 

"That  is  impossible,  madame.  It  cannot  have  been  the 
— the  paralyse,  as  they  thought.  The  brain,  as  madame 
knows,  is  the  top  of  the  spine — that  is  all.  What  the 
brain  tells " 

"It  is  late,  Swenson,  and  you  must  get  to  bed,"  she 
said  firmly.  "I  will  look  into  this  most  carefully,  you 
may  be  sure.  Only  we  must  not  allow  ourselves  to  be- 
come overexcited  and  make  any  mistakes.  Good-night." 

He  came  to  himself,  shook  a  little,  as  a  man  slightly 
chilled,  and  left  her  respectfully. 

Evelyn  sat  quietly  on  in  the  carved  chair.  Sleep  was 
impossible  to  her,  and  she  stirred  the  smoldered  logs  to 
fresh  flame  after  a  while  and  walked  slowly  about  the 
room,  trying  to  make  clear  to  her  mind  what  she  had 
heard. 

It  was  very  difficult:  to  her  Card  was  a  man  in  a 
wheeled  chair;  she  forced  herself  to  see  him  out  of  it — 
and  beheld  the  image  of  Manuel  d'Acunha !  Confused  in 
her  obstinate  imagination,  the  two  faces  laughed,  the  tall, 
lithe  bodies  moved  and  walked  beside  her — the  obsession 
was  dreadful  to  her. 

Why  should  it  not  be  as  Swenson  said  ?  She  alone,  of 
all  those  who  surrounded  her  husband,  knew  that  it  was 
not  probable — nay,  not  possible — that  any  of  those  learned 
consultations  which  they  all  took  for  granted  could  have 
occurred.  Who  had  nursed  the  sick  lad  ?  An  old  Indian 
woman.  Who  had  attended  him?  Some  little  country 
doctor  on  the  edge  of  the  Adirondack  woods.  Years 
afterward,  the  man  who  loved  him  best,  his  spiritual 

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adviser,  had  explained  his  hopeless  invalidism  to 
a  stranger,  a  lawyer  who  had  seen  him  three  times,  at 
most.  And  she?  She  had  thought  of  dentists,  of  tailors, 
of  barbers — never  once  of  physicians !  How  should  it 
have  occurred  to  her  that  a  man  who  believed  himself 
incapable  of  action  could  be  mistaken?  Dealing  fairly 
with  herself,  she  could  not  cavil  at  an  ignorance  common 
to  all  of  them. 

Well,  at  worst  there  had  been  little  time  lost:  they 
could  begin  to-morrow. 

It  is  characteristic  of  her  that  lost  in  the  practical 
measures  to  be  taken,  the  tact  to  be  observed,  the  great 
results  at  stake,  she  never  considered  the  effects  of  all  this 
strange  possibility  upon  herself  and  her  life.  Back  again 
in  her  post  as  mistress  of  Card's  affairs,  wise  in  them 
now  beyond  Hugh,  more  powerful  than  Dessars,  she  felt 
an  energy,  a  force,  a  centering  of  her  powers  long  absent 
from  her.  The  first  of  his  friends,  she  was  unaffectedly 
thrilled  at  the  hope  life  held  for  him:  for  she  was  sure 
it  was  a  hope.  The  certainty,  the  persistence  of  the  Swed- 
ish valet  carried  a  powerful  conviction  with  it.  The  man 
had  knowledge,  training,  experience.  His  idea  had  pos- 
sessed him  long. 

She  must  plan:  should  she  sound  her  husband,  first, 
prepare  him,  or  talk  with  specialists?  Hugh  she  had 
determined  not  to  consult:  it  was  then  first  that  she 
realized  her  jealousy  of  Hugh.  She  bit  her  lips  at  it 
and  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  there;  she  was  too  honest 
to  deny  it. 

"I  will  tell  him  the  first,"  she  said  to  herself  ...  she 
could  hardly  wait  for  daylight.  Afterward,  she  was  to 
wonder  at  this. 

A  bell  sharply  struck  sounded  through  the  rooms ;  she 

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started  and  looked  toward  her  husband's  door.  The  bell 
rang  again — without  doubt  he  was  calling.  She  drew 
aside  the  velvet  curtains  that  masked  the  heavy  oak  and 
went  in.  Card  leaned  on  one  elbow  in  the  bed.  The 
light  from  his  bed-candle  threw  his  face  in  a  relief  like 
that  of  a  Rembrandt  portrait.  His  eyes  were  very 
troubled. 

"Ah,  Eve-Marie!  I  do  not  like  to  rouse  you,  but 
something  is  wrong  with  Swenson.  He  is  talking,  but 
he  won't  answer  me — I  can't  understand  him  at  all.  My 
crutches  are  by  the  chair,  there — he  never  left  them  away 
from  the  bed  before." 

As  she  crossed  the  room  without  a  word,  she  realized 
that  he  was  speaking  to  her  in  English — something  he 
had  not  been  used  to  do  when  they  were  alone.  It  had 
the  curious  effect  of  making  her  feel  more  of  a  stranger 
in  his  room  than  ever:  it  was  as  if  she  had  been  any  of 
the  women  he  met,  who  prattled  about  his  chair. 

"Let  me  see  him,"  she  said  abruptly,  "and  then  I  will 
bring  you  the  crutches." 

Swenson  slept  in  a  small  room  opening  from  his  mas- 
ter's, that  had  been  a  storeroom  of  some  sort.  He  lay, 
crimson-faced,  on  his  back,  his  arms  above  his  head, 
chattering  in  Swedish,  with  here  and  there  a  German 
phrase:  he  was  quite  delirious. 

Evelyn  put  her  hand  on  his  scorching  forehead,  peered 
into  his  glazed  eyes.  She  had  seen  too  much  illness  at 
St.  Monica's  not  to  know  that  the  man  was  in  a  high  and 
dangerous  fever. 

"I  am  glad  I  had  not  gone  to  bed,"  she  said  quietly 
to  Card.  "Wait  till  I  think  a  moment." 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  her  face,  not  moving,  as  he  rested 
on  his  strong  elbow. 

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"This  is  what  would  be  best,  I  think,"  she  said;  after 
a  moment.  "I  am  sure  he  is  too  ill  to  move  very  far. 
I  will  help  you  into  your  chair,  you  can  put  on  a  wrapper, 
and  go  into  my  room.  I  will  call  a  doctor,  and  ask  him 
to  bring  a  nurse  and  Swenson  can  be  put  into  your  bed : 
the  nurse  can  have  his." 

"But  what  will  you  do?"  he  asked,  reaching,  however, 
with  docile  haste  for  the  fur-lined  robe  that  lay  on  a 
chair  beside  him. 

"Oh  I  shall  wait  anyway  till  morning,"  she  said,  hand- 
ing him  the  crutches  and  wheeling  the  chair  near  him. 
"It  is  two,  now,  you  see.  We  may  not  be  able  to  get  a 
nurse  directly,  and  there  will  be  things  to  do — I  don't  like 
to  disturb  Father  Dessars — he  has  had  a  hard  day,  and 
if  I  ring  up  his  man,  he  will  surely  hear." 

He  drew  himself  up  on  the  bed  and  thrust  his  arms 
into  the  robe  she  held  for  him.  Near  the  chair  were 
high  fur-lined  boots,  and,  as  he  slipped  the  crutches 
under  his  arms  and  prepared  for  the  powerful  swing 
that  should  lift  him  up  on  them,  she  stopped  him  with 
a  gesture  and  kneeling  by  him  pulled  the  boots  onto  the 
helpless  feet. 

"You  shouldn't  do  this,"  he  began,  distressed,  but  she 
laughed  him  down. 

"And  why  not  ?"  she  said  easily.  "I  can't  have  you  ill 
as  well  as  Swenson!" 

His  feet  were  slim,  high-arched  as  her  own,  perfectly 
white.  She  had  no  hesitation  whatever  at  these  unfamil- 
iar contacts ;  a  crisis  always  heartened  her,  and  practical 
action  made  her  unconscious  of  anything  but  the  next 
thing  to  be  done.  She  helped  him  as  she  would  have 
helped  any  invalid;  she  felt  toward  him  as  she  had  felt 
on  their  journey  out  of  the  woods;  he  needed  her. 

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A  nearby  doctor  was  summoned  by  telephone,  a  nurse, 
though  not  immediately  available,  was  promised  in  a  few 
hours  at  most.  Medicines  were  explained  to  her.  The 
doctor's  driver,  a  handy  fellow,  helped  him  to  lift  the 
patient  in  a  blanket  into  his  master's  bed.  Card,  always  a 
sound  and  easy  sleeper,  was  settled  in  her  own,  the 
interested  coachman  eager  to  help  him.  To  men 
of  all  classes  his  great  size  and  vitality,  so  strangely 
contrasted  with  his  utter  helplessness,  was  invariably 
appealing. 

To-night  he  made  no  effort  to  contest  her  judgment, 
but  composed  himself  to  sleep;  there  was  nothing  he 
could  do,  they  assured  him,  the  nurse  might  arrive  at  any 
hour;  Evelyn's  maid,  who  came  early  in  the  morning, 
could  relieve  her  mistress,  if  necessary.  She  had  dis- 
liked to  put  any  of  the  rooms  above  their  few  chambers 
into  use,  as  their  theory  that  they  were  birds  of  passage 
still  held,  in  her  mind. 

"How  long  do  you  think  the  fever  will  last,  doctor?" 
she  asked  him  at  the  door. 

He  looked  with  interest  at  this  pale,  handsome  woman, 
so  unexpectedly  competent  in  her  rich  velvet,  so  deft  with 
ice-bag  and  thermometer,  so  unusual  with  her  great  ame- 
thyst cross. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  have  a  very  sick  man  there,  Mrs.  Card,"  he  said. 
"Is  your  husband  deeply  attached  to  him?" 

"Ah-h,"  she  said  slowly,  "is  he  as  bad  as  that?  I  am 
sorry — lit  is  very  faithful.  It  is  so  sudden,  I  can't  be- 
lieve  " 

"The  man's  had  acute  bronchitis  for  at  least  ten  days, 
I  should  say,"  said  the  doctor  dryly.  "I've  seen  those 
Scandinavians  before.  They  have  it  on  their  feet — ob- 

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stinate  beggars,  they  are,  you  know,  and  then  they  col- 
lapse." 

She  frowned  with  vexation. 

"We  begged  him,  a  week  ago — I  feel  so  guilty " 

"There  you  are,"  he  interrupted.  "They're  like  that, 
you  know.  I  dare  say  you  couldn't  have  done  anything. 
Well,  I'm  off — let  me  know  directly  there's  any  develop- 
ment. The  nurse  ought  to  take  it  over  very  soon.  Good- 
night to  you." 

She  sat  by  his  bed  in  the  light  of  the  dim  night-light 
and  watched  his  heavy,  twitching  sleep.  The  house  was 
still  as  death  all  about  her. 

For  the  last  hour  nothing  had  been  in  her  mind  but 
the  press  of  immediate  business:  one  excitement  had 
driven  out  the  other.  Now,  all  action  suspended,  her 
thoughts  flew  back  to  the  shock  of  what  Swenson  had 
told  her,  and  it  was  as  if,  suddenly,  she  saw  with  new 
eyes. 

What !  Suppose  he  should  walk,  this  husband  of  hers, 
walk  and  run  like  another — then,  what  was  she  ?  Where 
was  her  bargain?  What  would  he  need  of  her?  What 
had  she  done,  that  day  in  the  woods  ? 

She  turned  cold  as  ice  and  shivered  in  the  velvet  coat 
she  had  thrown  over  her  bare  shoulders.  She  had  offered 
to  a  man,  rich,  handsome,  active  and  powerful,  able  to 
choose  where  he  would — to  marry  her ! 

She,  with  nothing  to  offer  him  but  help  that  he  no 
longer  needed — with  no  love  to  show,  for  him  or  from 
him — with  only  enough  claim  upon  him,  from  state  and 
church,  to  prevent  his  loving  any  woman  else  so  long  as 
she  lived. 

She  stared,  sick  with  shame  and  fear,  at  the  winking 
night-light,  and  tried  now  for  the  first  time  to  read  in  her 

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own  heart  what  her  feeling  for  this  man  was ;  tried,  and 
failed.  For  her  terror  clouded  her  mind,  and  in  their 
relation,  so  different  from  that  of  any  two  people  known 
to  her,  she  could  not  see  any  change  that  she  could  admit 
or  visualize  to  herself.  What  his  feelings  for  her  would 
be,  she  could  not  faintly  guess  at:  literally,  she  had  no 
idea. 

Her  pride  shrank:  what  had  she  to  give  him,  now? 
Swenson,  Hugh,  Dessars,  one  by  one  they  had  taken 
all  possible  service  from  her,  so  that  he  needed  nothing 
in  her  gift.  Friendship  he  did  not  seem  to  require  from 
women ;  of  love,  in  the  proper  sense  of  it,  there  had  never 
been  a  question  between  them.  She  could  see  no  sign  in 
him  of  ever  having  felt  it  in  his  life,  and  she,  herself — 
ah,  it  was  not  from  the  touch  of  his  hand  that  she  had 
learned  what  it  might  mean!  More  than  that,  the  only 
moment  that  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  she  had  deeply 
disliked. 

If  she  could  have  prayed,  she  would  surely  in  that  hour 
have  prayed  that  Swenson  had  never  told  her. 

The  hours  slipped  away  in  her  bitter  vigil.  Only,  as 
they  struck,  she  took  the  sick  man's  temperature,  wrote 
it  methodically  on  a  block  of  paper,  moistened  his  lips, 
covered  his  chest.  Never,  she  mused,  had  she  sat  by  her 
husband's  bed — there  had  been  no  need. 

Slowly  the  light  grew,  the  sparrows  chirped,  the  milk 
vans  rolled  by.  The  nurse  came,  pitied  her  ringed  eyes 
and  would  have  settled  her  in  some  comfort,  but  she 
shook  her  head,  took  off  her  velvet  dress,  bathed  in  cold 
water,  and  arranged  her  hair. 

All  through  the  three  days  of  the  valet's  sickness  she 
walked  silently  among  them,  a  mystery  to  herself ;  think- 
ing, thinking. 

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As  the  nurse  had  foreseen,  he  never  fully  regained  con- 
sciousness: pneumonia  had  struck  at  him  in  the  dark, 
and,  except  for  the  moment  when  the  priest  laid  the  cruci- 
fix to  his  lips  and  he  kissed  it  feebly,  they  doubted  if 
he  knew  them. 

The  tide  of  life  closed  swiftly  over,  as  in  such 
a  case  it  must.  He  had  been  a  close-mouthed,  imper- 
sonal man,  not  demonstrative,  doing  his  work,  draw- 
ing his  wages.  Ordinarily  he  did  not  use  so  many 
words  in  a  month  as  he  had  spent  in  that  last  night  with 
Evelyn. 

Card  missed  him,  but  not  so  much  that  Hugh  and 
Francis  Dessars  could  not  fill  the  gap  with  their  eager 
services.  Anxious  to  save  him  sorrow  they  were  with 
him  constantly,  and  did  not  notice  that  Evelyn  was  much 
away. 

From  the  day  of  the  man's  death  she  had  been  a 
changed  woman.  She  battled  in  a  world  they  never 
dreamed  of,  listening  fearfully  to  the  voice  within  her 
that  whispered: 

"No  one  knew  but  him !  He  told  nobody — and  he  may 
have  been — probably  was,  wrong.  If  he  had  not  spoken, 
only  not  spoken  for  a  few  minutes  one  night,  you  would 
be  as  you  were  before.  Your  husband  knows  nothing, 
expects  nothing,  is  perfectly  happy  and  content.  He  has 
a  thousand  times  more  than  what  he  ever  hoped  for :  few 
men  are  so  serene,  so  grateful.  .  .  ." 

For  hours  she  heard  this,  as  she  walked  the  streets  of 
London — haunted  miles. 

"You  are  a  coward,"  she  would  answer,  "a  weak 
coward!  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do;  go  and  do  it. 
Give  the  man  his  chance." 

Then  all  would  be  clear  and  she  would  turn  her  face 

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toward  home — when  in  a  sickening  flood  the  old  terror 
would  come,  drowning. 

"Think  where  you  will  be — what  you  will  be !  Would 
he  understand  .  .  .  would  anybody  understand?  Sup- 
pose he  felt  bound — unthinkable !  Suppose,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  did  not ;  how  free  him  ?" 

And,  indeed,  it  was  not  all  of  herself  that  she  thought, 
the  tempted,  harassed  creature.  She  saw  him  tied  to  her, 
a  woman  he  had  not  even  chosen.  She  saw  Audrey 
Dessars'  perverse,  slow  smile :  she  knew  what  she  knew. 
Once  thrilled  by  another's  presence,  one  knows  when 
others  thrill.  How  little  she  esteemed  herself  is  seen  by 
how  poor  she  felt  when  he  should  enter  the  market, 
equipped  as  other  buyers. 

Her  soul  was  sick,  her  sound,  sane  sense  of  values 
all  clouded  and  confused.  There  is  no  excuse,  I  suppose, 
for  her — but  each  day  she  returned  to  them  exhausted, 
evading  their  eyes :  each  day  she  did  not  speak. 


DEAREST  EVELYN  [wrote  Nelly  Schermer]  : 

I'm  sure  you'll  help  us  out  with  Georgie,  won't  you  ?  She's 
worrying  us  frightfully,  playing  about  with  d'Azzali  and 
only  getting  herself  talked  about — I  don't  think  she  has  the 
remotest  idea  of  marrying  him.  If  he's  ever  asked  her  to, 
which  nobody  seems  to  know!  She's  always  been  so  fogd 
of  you  and  she's  never  been  much  in  London  for  the  season. 
Her  mother  didn't  like  to  ask  you,  for  she  realized  that  your 
husband's  health  must  be  a  constant  responsibility  for  you, 
but  Christine  writes  from  Bermuda  that  he's  not  a  bit  of  an 
invalid,  as  we  supposed,  and  does  wonderfully — goes  every- 
where. You  must  be  very  happy,  and  we  are  all,  naturally, 
delighted.  James  Vrooman  was  most  enthusiastic  about  him, 
in  Paris,  and  left  us  so  interested.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
am  convinced  that  d'Azzali  intends  to  get  Jay's  Susy,  if  he 
can.  Cousin  Georgianna  much  prefers  her  to  Georgie,  un- 
fortunately, and  we  think,  from  something  Vrooman  let  fall, 
that  most  of  her  money  will  go  there.  Georgie  simply  re- 
fuses to  visit  Cousin  Georgianna  and  is  so  headstrong,  gen- 
erally— you  know  how  difficult  she  is.  But  you'd  have  a  good 
influence,  I'm  sure.  She's  been  going  into  these  suffrage 
affairs  so  spectacularly — Vandy,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  humors 
her,  and  thinks  it's  very  amusing.  But  as  your  Cousin  Stuy 
says,  making  speeches  on  the  steps  of  City  Hall  from  Willy 
Rice's  racing  car  never  helped  any  girl's  chances,  yet. 

You  must  find  the  Audrey  Dessars'  set  most  entertaining — 
is  it  true  that  she's  engaged  to  the  Prime  Minister?  I  met 
her  once  as  a  child — a  beautiful  creature. 

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Christine  writes  that  Miss  Finister  said  you  were  to  be  in 
Rome — as  long  as  d'Azzali  stays  over  here,  her  mother 
doesn't  think  that  would  make  any  difference.  The  Ogden 
Jays  will  be  in  southern  France,  and  they  could  take  her  for 
a  while,  if  it  was  too  much,  though  personally  I  don't  think 
much  of  having  any  young  girl  about  with  Ogden  Jay  very 
long.  But,  of  course,  we'd  leave  that  to  you. 

To  have  it  left  to  her!  Nothing  showed  her  more 
clearly  how  well  she  was  established,  now,  with  the  fam- 
ily. She  was  lifted  out  from  the  ranks  of  the  responsi- 
bilities, at  a  bound,  into  the  court  of  appeals,  her  judg- 
ment courted,  her  influence  valued.  Georgie  was  sum- 
moned immediately  and  accepted  the  invitation  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

As  for  Cousin  Ted  [she  wrote  her  mother],  he's  simply 
the  most  stunningly  handsome  creature  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life !  Mr.  Vrooman  was  laughing  at  us  all  the  time.  He's 
very  kind  to  me,  though  I'm  a  little  afraid  of  him,  like 
everybody  else,  he's  so  awfully  learned — he's  writing  a  book 
or  something.  They  live  in  the  most  fascinating  way  in  the 
loveliest  rooms  of  Father  Francis  Dessars' — he  simply 
wouldn't  hear  of  their  moving,  when  I  came,  and  so  Cousin 
Evie  and  I  and  her  maid  have  moved  up  on  the  floor  above 
his  and  have  the  dearest  little  sitting-room  up  there.  I  have 
what  used  to  be  the  nursery  and  Evie  Miss  Dessars'  old 
room — all  hung  with  pale  green  satin  and  tarnished  Floren- 
tine mirrors.  Cousin  Ted,  of  course,  never  leaves  the 
ground  floor,  so,  you  see,  we  live  all  over  the  house.  Miss 
Dessars  is  very  much  interested  in  him — I  don't  like  her 
rery  much,  but  I  see  why  she  is  called  the  most  fascinating 
woman  in  London. 

She  has  the  most  wonderful  clothes  I  ever  saw.  I  admired 
a,  bangle  she  wore  and  she  took  it  off  and  put  it  on  my  arm. 

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"Do  you  like  it?"  she  asked  me.  "Andrea  d'Azzali  cut 
his  teeth  on  it,  ten  years  ago!" 

"It  was  certainly  most  successful,  for  he  has  very  good 
teeth,"  said  I,  and  she  laughed,  and  invited  me  to  tea  with 
her. 

Evelyn,  with  Georgia  for  excuse,  filled  days  and  nights 
to  the  brim:  she  dared  not  stop  to  think  and  avoided 
Father  Dessars,  who  accepted  with  non-questioning  grav- 
ity the  money  she  pressed  upon  him  in  lieu  of  personal 
service. 

"If  I  can  ever  be  of  any  use  to  you,  my  dear  friend," 
he  began  one  day,  but  she  cut  him  off. 

"You  are  kind,"  she  said,  "but  can  anyone  really  be 
of  use?" 

"To  you — not  yet,  I  see,"  he  answered,  troubled. 
"But  you  know  I  am  here." 

She  gave  him  ten  pounds  for  St.  Monica's  and  went 
with  Georgie  and  Lady  Finister  on  a  series  of  country- 
house  visits.  Georgie  reveled  in  a  great  hunting  season 
and  wrote  that  she  certainly  should  marry  an  English- 
man. 

Evelyn  had  never  hunted,  but  there  was  always  some- 
one glad  to  follow  at  her  pace,  and  stop  when  she  wished. 

"She's  nothin'  like  Miss  Stuyvers'  seat  nor  hands,  but 
you  can  trust  her  with  a  good  horse,  y'know,  and  never 
regret  it  a  penny,"  said  Flacke  Heatherslough,  and  will- 
ing hosts  mounted  her  well  and  listened  contentedly  to 
her  pleasant  touch  on  the  piano  while  they  stretched  out 
to  their  tea. 

Gard  and  Hugh  had  taken  a  flying  trip  to  Rome,  after 
all:  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  left  her.  She  was 
ashamed  of  her  chHdish  excuse  for  letting  him  go  with 

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her  heavy  secret  burning  in  her,  ashamed  of  the  sudden 
irritation  that  had  flooded  her  when  she  learned  his  er- 
rand. 

The  boy,  Mel,  his  only  friend  in  America,  except  Pere 
Antoine,  had  developed  a  clear  vocation  for  the  priest- 
hood, and  at  Hugh's  suggestion  Card  had  arranged  for  his 
education  and  training  in  a  Roman  college  where  scholar- 
ships were  highly  coveted.  Dessars'  influence  had  made 
a  place  for  him;  Father  Antoine  had  been  working  dil- 
igently, it  seemed,  with  the  boy,  since  Card  had  left  him, 
and  assured  his  early  pupil  that  the  latter  would  never 
shame  his  interest  in  his  behalf.  The  lad  was  to  arrive 
very  shortly,  grateful  and  eager,  and  Evelyn  heard  of 
it  all  with  a  strange  heaviness  at  her  heart. 

"You — you  are  not  displeased?  You  don't  disap- 
prove?" her  husband  asked  her,  reading,  evidently,  her 
shadowed  face. 

"How  could  I  ?"  she  answered  with  an  effort.  "I  think 
it  most  kind  and  practical.  I  am  only  sorry  I  did  not 
know  before  of  it — I  hardly  see  how  I  can  break  all  the 
engagements  I  have  made  for  Georgie  ...  if  I  had 
known  that  you  were  thinking  of  it  .  .  ." 

"I  didn't  think  of  it,"  he  assured  her  hastily.  "It  was 
Hugh's  idea — I  cannot  remember  that  I  can  do  these 
things,  you  see,"  he  added  a  little  wistfully,  searching 
her  face. 

But  her  eyes  hardened. 

"You  are  fortunate  in  having  one  who  can,"  she  said. 
"I  regret  that  Hugh  didn't  see  fit  to  inform  me  before, 
that  is  all.  Lady  Finister  has  made  plans  for  us  and  it 
will  be  a  little  awkward " 

"Hugh  said  we  ought  not  to  drag  you  and  Georgie," 
he  interrupted,  eager  to  exonerate  his  friend.  "He  said 

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from  something  you  said  on  the  boat  he  doubted  if  you 
really  wanted  to  be  in  Rome  for  Easter.  So  these  en- 
gagements, he  thought,  would  give  you  every  reason  for 
not  coming.  I  know  that  going  to  Rome  does  not — can- 
not mean,  of  course,  what  it  does  to  me." 

"Does  it  to  Hugh?"  she  asked  enigmatically.  He  did 
not  understand. 

But  Finister  must  have  gathered  that  all  was  not  quite 
right,  for  he  spoke  to  her  very  simply  and  directly. 

"If  there  is  any  reason  for  not  helping  this  protege  of 
Ted's,"  he  began,  and  his  frank,  friendly  meeting  her 
melted  all  her  jealousy,  suddenly,  and  in  one  of  her  odd 
transitions  of  mood,  so  sudden  in  these  days  as  to 
frighten  her,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  full  of  quick 
tears. 

"It  was  only  that — that  I  would  like  to  think  of  some 
of  these  things  myself,"  she  murmured,  dropped  her 
white  lids  and  walked  swiftly  away.  He  stared,  wonder- 
ing. 

"I  could  never  have  understood  any  woman,  heaven 
knows,"  he  marveled.  With  the  deep  reserve  of  a  man 
of  his  type  and  race  he  had  never  felt  it  strange  that 
Card,  now  his  most  intimate  friend,  should  never  have 
brushed  upon  his  relations  with  his  dignified,  silent  young 
wife:  why  should  he  do  so?  Hugh  had  no  doubt  that 
whatever  fundamental  attraction  had  drawn  them  to- 
gether, still  held — he  had  no  idea  for  how  long,  even, 
they  had  been  married.  Georgie,  the  only  person  who 
could  have  told  him,  was  far  too  immersed  in  her  own 
affairs  to  think  of  a  past  event  that  had,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  drifted  far  back  in  her  young,  quick-moving  mind. 
She  thought  Cousin  Evie  very  lucky — though  no  more 
so  than  she  deserved — and  grinned  maliciously  at 

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Audrey's  plain  infatuation  for  her  Farnese  Augustine 
— himself  as  untouched  by  any  realization  of  it  as  either 
of  his  ancient  prototypes. 

So  Evelyn  did  not  see  the  meeting  between  three  of 
the  strangest  friends  that  ever  a  quick-moving  year  has 
parted — three,  for  Pere  Antoine,  trembling  and  almost 
weeping,  led  up  the  shy,  respectful  boy  to  his  benefactor 
in  the  dignified  Roman  salon. 

James  Vrooman,  speeding  on  his  busy,  quiet  missions 
here  and  there,  might  well  have  regretted  absence  from 
this  scene:  none  better  than  he  could  have  appreciated 
the  gasp,  the  one  quick,  embracing  stare,  then  the  quiet, 
reserved  greeting  of  the  rusty  little  priest,  shrunken  a  lit- 
tle, Vrooman  would  have  noted,  a  little  older,  away  from 
his  kindly  forests. 

"Mr.  Card,  this  is  indeed  a  great  pleasure,"  he  be- 
gan in  his  precise  English,  but  got  no  further,  for  one 
powerful  turn  of  the  wheel  sent  his  old  pupil  to  his  side, 
a  great  arm  shot  over  him,  and  he  was  crushed  in  a  giant 
grasp. 

"O  mon  pere — mon  pere!  C'est  vottsf  Vraiment,  c'est 
vous?  O  mon  pere!" 

"Mons  fils — mon  cher  fils!" 

The  boy,  Mel,  wept  with  excitement. 

It  was  [Finister  wrote  his  sister  Charlotte]  quite  the  most 
touching  thing  I  ever  saw.  The  little  padre  was  Ted's 
teacher,  it  seems,  his  father  appears  to  have  got  an  abbe  for 
him — certainly  the  American  plutocrat  is  interesting  in  his 
various  developments !  Between  his  respect  and  admiration 
for  Ted  and  Ted's  really  beautiful  devotion  and  honor  to 
him,  they  nearly  had  me  wiping  my  eyes.  It  was  like 
Ulysses  and  his  old  nurse :  you  would  have  thought  no  one 
else  had  ever  done  anything  for  him! 

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The  boy,  a  faithful  loutish  fellow,  adores  the  ground  Ted's 
chair  rolls  over — begs  to  push  it — and  would  clearly  like  to 
die  for  him.  I  can't  see  where  one  gets  such  an  idea  of 
disagreeable  dependence  in  that  class,  in  the  States:  he 
seemed  fairly  feudal  to  me !  He  calls  him  "Mr.  Ed"  and,  in 
my  opinion,  would  be  glad  to  take  Moggridge's  (our  new 
man's)  place. 

There  was  a  great  to-do  when  they  were  both  fitted  out, 
Mel  in  his  new  college  uniform,  the  padre  smartened  up 
from  top  to  toe,  and  a  fine  silk  cassock  and  great-coat.  Un- 
known to  him,  we  have  cabled  over  to  have  his  little  rectory 
painted  and  papered  and  new-carpeted:  it  seems  that  the 
money  we  sent  before  went  for  a  roof  for  the  church !  I 
suggested  a  window  put  up  to  Ted's  father,  and  was  nearly 
canonized  by  the  padre.  A  clever  young  artist  here  is  draw- 
ing out  a  triple  window  for  over  the  altar.  Dessars  told  us 
of  him — poor,  and  a  genius,  it  appears. 

Your  spoiled  imp,  Manuel,  popped  in  in  the  middle  of  all 
this,  and  delivered  all  your  messages — he  has  more,  he  says, 
for  Mrs.  Card.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  he  looks  like  Ted? 
Especially  now  that  he's  filled  out — as  he  has.  Not  so  much 
a  personal  likeness,  in  a  way,  as  a  family  resemblance,  if 
you  see.  What  I  imagine  Ted  means  when  he  says  that  you 
and  I  look  alike — which  is  absurd,  in  detail,  but  may  be  true 
in  the  mass. 

My  book  seems  to  have  done  fairly  well  for  me.  The  old 
Admiral  sent  for  me  at  the  club  last  week,  and  hinted  at 
possibilities  so  flattering  that  I  shan't  enlarge  upon  it  till  I 
am  sure  what  he  means.  My  lady,  her  auntship,  unbends 
remarkably  and  insists  that  I  shall  take  my  cousin's  old 
rooms — has  had  his  study  done  over!  What  do  you  think? 
She  says  I  should  set  up  a  man — it's  true  that  poor  Swenson 
rather  spoiled  me  and  that  the  book  doing  so  well  would 
almost  justify  it,  if  I  wanted  one. 

Ever  since  Swenson's  death,  by  the  way,  Mrs.  Card  has 
seemed  to  me  very  changed.  Americans  are  undoubtedly — 

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the  women,  at  any  rate — nervous  creatures.  I  could  almost 
think  she  dislikes  me,  now  and  then,  but  when  I  walk  up  to 
the  guns,  to  have  it  out,  she  melts,  changes  again,  and  all  but 
begs  my  pardon.  I  shouldn't  object  to  a  few  hints,  if  you 
were  here. 

Now  we  must  go  to  see  the  new  Cardinal  brought  in — fin- 
est seats,  if  you  please,  special  clerical  usher,  and  everything 
nandsome  about  us ! 

Charlotte,  at  tea  in  the  Bermuda  cottage,  read  her 
letter  with  quiet  smiles,  but  Evelyn,  resting  in  her  room 
before  dinner  in  one  of  the  finest  country  seats  in  Berk- 
shire, crushed  hers  in  her  hand  with  bent  brows  and 
a  face  that  would  have  given  Hugh  Finister  wise  pause 
before  he  dared  to  approach  her. 

It  was  from  Card. 

DEAR  EVE-MARIE  [he  wrote]  : 

You  will  be  surprised  at  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 
Hugh  and  I  are  to  take  Pere  Antoine  up  to  Switzerland.  It 
was  a  great  chance  for  him  to  come  to  Europe  at  all,  you 
see,  and  he  feels  that  he  will  never  come  again.  His  bishop 
sent  him  to  Rome.  I  think,  though  he  is  too  modest  to  say 
so,  it  was  as  a  reward  for  all  the  fine  work  he  has  done  in 
his  large  parish.  So  he  had  an  interview  with  Holy  Father 
and  met  through  Father  Dessars  many  people  of  interest.  It 
has  filled  him  with  pride  and  happiness  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  He  spoke  of  Brieg,  where  you  remember  his  parish 
was,  and  Hugh  thought  he  might  like  to  go  there  in  the  few 
days  he  has.  He  has  but  one  month  in  all.  So  we  shall 
take  him  there  and  he  will  make  his  own  photographs  with 
a  camera  the  people  gave  him  when  he  left.  He  sends  you 
his  most  respectful  salutations  and  asks  me  to  say  to  you 
that  he  has  not  forgotten  who  first  promised  him  pictures 
from  Brieg.  You  will  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  him. 

EDOUARD. 
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It  was,  for  Evelyn,  the  last  straw.  Far  down  in  her 
mind,  she  saw  now,  had  been  the  certainty  of  being  with 
him  on  the  little  pilgrimage  she  knew  he  had  never  lost 
sight  of.  After  Rome  they  had  planned  a  summer  in  the 
Alps,  and  in  the  obscure  little  village  whose  secrets  of 
memory  she  alone  would  share  in  common  with  him,  she 
had  instinctively  taken  it  for  granted  that  she  would 
stand  once  more  with  him  as  she  had  stood  at  the  first. 
On  those  quiet,  lonely  heights,  away  from  all  the  in- 
terests that  held  them  apart,  here,  she  could  perhaps  have 
learned  to  know  him  as  Hugh  knew  him,  or  Francis  Des- 
sars.  For  she  realized,  now,  that  there  was  much  to 
know  and  that  she,  by  some  strange  irony,  was  ignorant 
of  it. 

Now  it  was  spoiled  for  her.  Now  Hugh  would  get 
his  confidences,  now  those  Alpine  memories,  twined  so 
inextricably  with  Pere  Antoine  and  the  devoted  Mel, 
would  mingle  with  his  friendship  for  Hugh,  and  she 
would  lose  her  one  small  vantage  ground. 

A  flash  of  what  she  did  not  know  was  the  Jaffray 
temper,  slow  to  rouse  and  ill  to  master,  kindled  in  her 
deep  eyes.  Her  maid,  delighted  with  the  flush  in  her 
mistress's  cheeks,  dressed  her  in  cloudy  black  gauze, 
transparent,  inviting  the  eyes,  and  fastened  a  spray  of 
flaming  salvia  from  the  greenhouses  at  her  belt. 

As  she  walked  slowly  down  the  wide  staircase,  from 
out  a  knot  of  newly  come  guests,  Manuel  d'Acunha 
leaped  forward  and  seized  both  her  hands,  his  own  shak- 
ing, while  he  laughed  and  called  her  name. 


XXI 

ON  the  full  tide  of  the  short  London  season  Eve- 
lyn Card  drove  rudderless,  a  pain  at  her  heart, 
unguessed  by  him  who  had  caused  it,  a  knowl- 
edge of  what  she  should  have  let  others  share,  buried 
with  a  dead  man,  a  thrill  in  every  pulse  unknown  except 
to  the  one  who  had  waked  it.  With  the  three  of  them 
she  grew  thin,  glowing  and  paling  a  hundred  times  an 
hour,  inky-eyed  above  the  faint  violet  circles  that  rimmed 
her  thick  lashes.  The  constant  trouble  of  her  soul  gave 
her  beauty,  who  had  been  before  but  a  handsome  woman: 
she  was  awake,  electric,  a  challenge.  A  great  inter- 
preter, through  garments,  of  woman's  beauty,  dressed  her 
in  strange,  shifting  blues  and  greens,  and  London's  pet 
among  painters,  calling  her  second  only  to  that  lovely 
Mary,  America's  offering  to  India,  painted  her,  holding 
an  amethyst  chain  with  a  cross  in  her  long,  firm  fingers 
— a  curious  touch  that  made  the  picture  unique. 

Everybody — who  was  anybody — went  to  view  it,  Nelly 
Schermer  among  the  others,  for  once  awed  out  of  pa- 
tronage. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  [she  wrote  to  Cousin 
Georgianna,  scolding  her  way  through  the  Riviera] — the  very 
smartest  people  in  London,  engaged  for  three  and  four 
places  every  night,  lovely  clothes  and  considered  a  great 
beauty — she  certainly  is  very  noticeable,  eyes  just  like  Will 
Jaffray's.  Georgie  is  perfectly  happy  and  so  much  improved, 

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none  of  this  suffragette  nonsense,  I'm  happy  to  say.  The 
most  attractive  young  Spaniard  is  about  with  them  all  the 
time:  if  Georgie  must  have  a  foreigner,  he's  certainly  the 
best  I've  seen.  Edward  is  wonderfully  interesting,  quite  un- 
usual— he  has  the  best  possible  connections  here.  The  Queen 
is  very  fond  of  Mrs.  Dessars,  his  great  friend's  mother,  who 
is  to  present  Evelyn  and  Georgie.  There's  no  doubt — Eve- 
lyn's done  well. 

Had  she? 

Dancing  with  Manuel  at  the  Dessars'  ball,  drugged  into 
forgetfulness  with  the  glitter  of  the  lights,  the  scent  of 
heavy  flowers,  the  swooning  music,  even,  a  little,  with  the 
wine  he  had  insisted  upon  her  sharing  with  him,  she 
leaned  a  little  heavily  in  his  arms.  Slim  in  a  sheath  of 
pale  mauve,  soft  violet  in  the  shadowed  folds,  his  laven- 
der orchids  on  her  shoulder,  his  amethyst  cross  between 
her  white  breasts,  her  very  eyes  seemed  purple  as  deep 
pansies.  He  had  never  in  his  life  so  loved  and  wanted 
any  woman,  never  been  so  little  certain  of  one  he  loved 
and  wanted.  He  had  never  seen  her  wear  any  other 
jewel :  was  he  to  blame  that  he  read  much  into  that  fact  ? 
If  it  were  her  whim  so  to  distinguish  him,  must  it  not 
mean  something? 

"In  one  way,"  he  said  softly,  half  chanting  his  words 
to  the  measure  of  the  music — a  way  he  had — "in  one 
way,  my  cross  was  the  last  gift  for  me  to  have  sent  you 
— do  you  know  why?" 

"Why?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  veiled,  under  drooping  lids. 

"To-night,"  instinct  whispered  to  him,  "to-night,  if 
ever!" 

"You  know  the  February  rhyme — the  one  for  ame- 
thysts, don't  you?"  he  asked. 

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Audrey  Dessars  had  found  out,  of  Manuel,  what  few 
women  observed :  when  really  in  earnest,  he  dropped 
the  hint  of  foreign  diction  that  made  his  speech  piquant, 
and  spoke  in  the  perfect,  easy  English  he  had  learned 
in  the  nursery. 

"What  rhyme?"  said  Evelyn,  her  eyes  closed  against 
his  shoulder.  They  moved,  as  always,  like  one  person, 
swaying  easily  through  the  scented  crowd,  as  if  they 
were  alone. 

They  were  much  watched,  for  sheer  delight  of  their 
perfect  mating  in  the  lovely  motion:  Georgie,  a  little 
wan,  dropped  her  eyes  when  she  passed  them. 

He  repeated  the  old  couplets: 

"The  February  born  shall  find 
Sincerity  and  peace  of  mind, 
Freedom  from  passion  and  from  care, 
If  she  the  amethyst  will  wear." 

"What?  What  is  that?  Say  it  again,"  she  com- 
manded, and  he  hummed  it  through  to  the  waltz  tune. 

He  felt  her  heart  leap  against  him. 

"Sincerity?"  she  said,  as  if  to  herself,  "sincerity? 
Peace  of  mind?  Ah!" 

"The  first  you  have,  my  heart,"  he  said,  "the  second — 
am  I  sure  I  wish  it  for  you?  Care  you  should  never 
know — you  are  too  beautiful  and  dear " 

"Hush!  Hush,  Manuel,"  she  began  faintly,  "don't 
spoil- 

"Spoil?"  he  broke  in,  "spoil?" 

He  had  guided  her  into  a  little  music-room  where  a 
discreet  table  for  two  stood  ready  for  the  supper  hour. 
Palms  stood  thick  before  it,  masking  the  entrance.  It 
was  too  early  for  its  use :  it  waited,  a  quiet  eddy. 


OPEN    MARKET 

"What  would  spoil  my  gift,  my  little  heart,"  said  he, 
holding  her  as  though  the  dance  were  not  over,  "would 
be  that  it  should  give  you  what  would  incline  me  to 
steal  it  back  again — you  know?" 

"I — I — let  us  dance,  Manuel,"  she  stammered. 

"Look  at  me,  Evelyn,"  he  said  gravely,  and  the  sin- 
cerity in  his  voice  moved  her  greatly.  "You  have  known 
'freedom  from  passion'  for  many  years,  I  believe :  do  you 
know  it  now?" 

"Hush,  I  must  go — he  will  be  tired,"  she  said,  fighting 
a  power  that  chained  and  blindfolded  and  deafened 
her.  "He — he — it  is  late  for  him  .  .  ." 

Manuel  laughed  softly,  feeling  her  thrill. 

"Monsieur  Teddy  Card  is  very  happily  at  chess — with 
Miss  Dessars  in  her  own  sitting-room,"  he  said.  "She 
has  danced  but  one  dance — the  first.  I  doubt  if  he  is 
tired.  And  I'm  sure  he  doesn't  want  to  go." 

She  stiffened,  and  he  opened  his  arms  instantly,  so 
that  she  stood  alone.  They  stood  in  silence,  she  looking 
at  the  snowy  little  table  with  its  flowerlike  glasses,  he 
watching  her.  His  nerves  were  strung  to  every  vibration 
of  hers;  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  make  a  mistake 
now. 

"Come,"  he  said  abruptly,  "let  us  dance  again — there 
is  an  American  song :  you'll  like  it." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  they  glided  out  of  the 
little  room.  Emotions  she  had  only  dreamed  or  read 
of  fought  in  her,  dizzied  her.  What  was  Audrey  Des- 
sars doing  in  that  sitting-room  of  hers? 

The  waltz  was  very  slow,  requiring  a  measured  dip 
of  the  body  to  fill  out  the  cadence ;  she  bent  herself  me- 
chanically to  its  rhythm,  unconscious  of  the  tune.  Now 
Manuel  was  humming  it  softly. 

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"It  is  apple  blossom  time  hi  Normandy, 

In  Normandy  ...  In  Normandy  .  .  ." 

She  shivered  and  opened  wide,  frightened  eyes  on 
him ;  a  man  brushing  by  her  loosened  his  handkerchief  as 
he  danced  and  a  faint  breath  of  eau-de-cologne  filled  her 
nostrils. 

Manuel  felt  all  her  weight  in  his  arms  and  sighed  hap- 
pily. Only  her  feet  moved,  as  will  happen  sometimes 
in  dreams :  blind,  she  leaned  against  him  and  he  carried 
her,  through  warm  air,  shot  with  light  and  the  notes  of 
a  tune  that  broke  her  heart. 

"The  pearls — the  pearls!"  he  heard  her  whisper;  her 
hand  turned  in  his  to  form  a  cup,  and  again  they  were 
in  the  secret,  little  room,  that  waited  for  them. 

"My  little  heart,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her.  "They  are 
not  pearls — pearls  are  for  tears.  They  are  amethysts — 
but  did  they  bring  you  freedom  from  passion  ?  Tell  me, 
Evelyn,  dearest,  did  they?" 

"No,"  her  lips  formed.    "Oh,  no!" 

"No,"  he  repeated,  "from  that  you  never  can  be  free, 
now,  little  heart  of  me,"  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
cross  on  her  breast. 

But  under  that  kiss,  the  first  of  all  her  life,  she  lay, 
though  he  could  not  know  it,  in  a  deep  canoe  that  drifted 
on  a  mountain  lake ;  the  arm  that  held  her  close  was  none 
of  his,  but  one,  stronger,  that  had  clasped  her,  struggling, 
in  a  warm  sea ;  the  eyes  that  burned  on  hers  were  set 
under  heavier  brows  than  Manuel's  and  had  first  met 
her  own  under  the  roof  of  a  cabin  built  of  logs  ... 

"Here,"  said  a  man's  voice,  "let's  have  a  try  at  this, 
Miss  Stuyvers — it  looks  awfully  jolly  in  here — Oh! 
sorry,  I'm  sure!" 

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'We  were  just  going,"  said  Manuel.    "Shall  we  dance 
this  through,  chere  madame?" 

At  the  door  of  the  ballroom  she  hardly  paused. 

"Go  back  alone,  please,"  she  said.     "I  am  going. 

"Why,  Evelyn,"  complained  her  hostess,  "not  going? 
Nonsense — your  husband's  off  somewhere  with  Dawdy — 
it's  very  early." 

"Don't  disturb  him — my  head  is  rather  bad,"  said  Eve- 
lyn, smiling  prettily  at  a  baffled  partner.  "So  sorry,  but 
I  really  must.  Please  don't  bother,  Hugh." 

The  maid  wrapped  her  long,  lacy  cloak  around  her, 
clumsy  at  her  "Hurry,  please,  won't  you?" 

She  was  on  the  steps,  at  the  curb,  when  she  remem- 
bered that  no  one  had  called  her  motor.  The  footman 
fell  back  at  her  impatient  denial ;  a  passing  hansom  caught 
her  eye. 

"Yes,  yes,  I'll  take  you,"  she  cried  to  the  delighted  cab- 
man, and  sprang  in. 

"An'  where  was  it,  then,  miss?"  he  questioned  con- 
fidentially. 

"St.  Monica's — quick!    You  know  it?"  she  panted. 

"Deed  'n'  I  do,  miss,"  and  to  the  beat  of  his  horse's 
feet  she  held  her  swimming,  drowning  thoughts.  To 
be  there.  Oh,  to  be  there! 

The  lantern  gleaming  from  its  old  iron  sconce  over 
the  sacristy  showed  that  he  was  there.  She  thrust  her 
lace  handkerchief  into  the  curious  cabby's  hand. 

"Take  that — it's  worth  a  guinea.  I  have  no  money," 
she  said  and  made  for  the  battered  door  under  the 
lantern. 

As  she  knocked  it  opened,  and  a  haggard  girl  of  the 
streets  came  out,  crying  softly:  Evelyn  grew  whiter  as 
she  passed  her. 

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"Mrs.  Card — Evelyn !"  Francis  stared  at  her,  glowing 
in  her  orchids  and  lace  in  his  door.  Above  the  worn 
cassock  his  face  looked  white  and  tired. 

"I — I  am  here — I  am  wicked — Oh,  help  me !"  she  cried 
and  reached  out  her  hands  like  a  blind  woman. 

"What?"  he  said  slowly.     "What?" 

He  stood  tall  above  her,  piercing  her  eyes  with  his. 

"You  come  to  me,  in  this  dress,  here,  at  this  hour? 
What  does  it  mean?" 

The  orchids  were  crushed  against  her  breast ;  her  dark 
hair  was  disordered;  the  sharp  edge  of  the  twinkling, 
purple  cross  had  pressed  against  her  white  skin  and 
marked  it  red.  Her  lace  coat,  dragged  on  askew,  trailed 
on  the  trampled,  uneven  floor. 

"I — I  have  been  very  wrong,"  she  said,  gasping  piti- 
fully. "I  have  been — been  very  wrong,  for  a  long  time, 
and  to-night  I — I  saw  .  .  ." 

His  face  was  cold  and  severe.  He  looked  at  her  as 
if  he  had  never  known  her.  No  friend  of  hers,  he  stood 
there,  but  a  strange  priest,  questioning  a  stranger. 

"Why  do  you  come  here  ?"  he  asked  and  looked  at  the 
red  mark  on  her  breast. 

"O  father,  listen  to  me !  Forgive  me !  Help  me  to  be 
good!"  she  cried,  and  fell,  weeping,  to  her  knees. 


XXII 

IN  her  humility  it  was  to  Hugh  that  Evelyn  turned. 
Although  the  suggestion  that  doctors  should  be  con- 
sulted came,  in  reality,  from  Dessars,  through  his 
adroit  handling  of  the  situation,  in  leading  the  talk  to 
Swenson  and  his  ability  as  a  masseur,  recalling  to  Hugh's 
mind  the  valet's  early  talk  in  Bermuda,  it  was  by  Finister 
himself  that  the  definite  proposal  was  finally  made.  Eve- 
lyn, who  was  to  broach  the  matter  to  her  husband,  dis- 
covered very  soon  that  the  shock  she  had  braced  herself 
to  meet,  the  strain  she  had  foreseen  for  him,  simply 
didn't  occur.  A  curious  unwillingness  to  discuss  the 
early  conditions  of  his  illness,  a  determined  reticence  as 
to  the  whole  history  of  the  case,  met  her  tentative  ques- 
tionings; and  as  to  the  impossibility  of  any  change  he 
was  clearly  so  entirely  convinced  as  to  make  his  listening 
to  her  at  all  the  merest  courtesy. 

Undesirous  of  fatiguing  "scenes"  as  she  might  be,  this 
utter  failure  to  move  him  at  all  was  curiously  disap- 
pointing to  her.  She  had  imagined  so  definitely  that  slow 
intake  of  the  breath,  the  dilation  of  the  deep-blue  pupil, 
that  grave  intentness  of  gaze  with  which  he  met  the 
great  issues  of  his  life,  that  to  make  no  impression  what- 
ever on  him  beyond  an  obvious  discomfort,  was  more 
than  a  little  annoying.  To  present  to  a  man  bound  to  a 
wheel-chair  the  possibility,  at  least,  of  a  freedom  like 
other  men's — and  to  have  him  dismiss  the  whole  matter 

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with  a  simple  sentence  and  change  the  subject!  Was  it 
for  this,  then,  that  she  had  smothered  her  conscience, 
suffered  weeks  of  guilt  and  remorse,  humiliated  herself 
by  a  confession? 

But  the  matter  could  not  drop  here.  Against  his 
will,  apparently,  this  obstinate  giant  must  be  convinced, 
and  she  renewed  the  attack,  only  to  meet  the  same  gentle 
repulse.  In  vain  she  tried  for  the  position  of  friendly 
directress  of  earlier  days;  here  sat  a  courteous  gentle- 
man, older  than  she  by  several  years,  quietly  convinced 
in  theory  and  practice  that  what  she  proposed  was  ill- 
advised,  and  disinclined  to  discuss  it  with  her.  What 
could  she  do?  In  despair  she  turned  to  Hugh. 

He  listened,  shrugged,  seemed  not  at  all  surprised. 

"You  know,  I  think  he's  quite  right!  I  admit  that 
I'm  surprised  it  hasn't  been  more  frequently  experi- 
mented with,  but,  after  all,  doesn't  that  just  show  the 
thing  was  always  final,  Mrs.  Card,  after  the  first?  Cer- 
tainly Ted  would  have  made  every  effort,  even  though 
his  father  does  seem  to  have  been  pretty  easily  convinced. 
He  must  have  been  a  curious  man,  Mr.  Card,  senior! 
Evidently,  a  real  recluse — almost  a  hermit.  You  never 
knew  him?" 

"Never,"  she  said  briefly. 

"Of  course,  I'll  have  a  go  at  Ted,  if  you  wish  it — 
one  sees  how  you  feel  perfectly.  But  I  hate  to  have  you 
raising  hopes,  dear  Mrs.  Teddy — I  do,  indeed,  and  I  must 
say  it." 

She  bit  her  lips  and  looked  away  from  him. 

"And  really,  now,  when  we  look  at  the  facts  square 
in  the  face,"  Hugh  went  on  soothingly,  "how  many 
happier  men  than  Ted  Card  do  you  know,  now?  How 
many  more  contented  ?  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Card,  he's  a  man 

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in  ten  thousand!  I'm  no  ladies'  man,  as  you  know,  and 
I've  knocked  about  with  all  sorts  of  chaps  all  my  life,  and 
I  never  saw  a  man  that  got  more  out  of  life — I  swear  I 
never  did!  You'll  just  be  stirring  him  all  up  for  nothing 
probably  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  mean,  then "  she  could  not  finish. 

"I  mean  I'd  let  it  alone,  if  you  really  want  to  know," 
he  said  bluntly. 

Her  eyes  flooded  with  nervous  tears :  it  was  more 
than  she  could  bear.  Never  had  Evelyn  Jaffray  known 
such  a  temptation;  never  could  Evelyn  Card  know  a 
greater.  To  leave  Hugh  in  this  frame,  to  satisfy  Fran- 
cis with  what  she  knew  would  be  a  half-hearted  attempt 
on  Hugh's  part,  to  clear  her  own  conscience  .  .  .  and, 
after  all,  what  did  she  know  more  than  Hugh?  How 
possibly  he  was  right! 

He  watched  her  eagerly;  he  really  wanted  her  to  give 
it  up,  she  knew.  How  ironic,  how  pathetic  it  all  was! 
Into  what  a  tangle  of  cross  purposes  her  life  was  knitted 
.  .  .  had  anything,  one  single  event,  grown  from  that 
strange  day  in  the  log  cabin,  turned  out  as  she  had 
planned?  She  could  not  think  so. 

"It's  Ted's  age,  you  know,"  Hugh  added  softly,  "that 
alone  makes  it  almost  certain,  to  my  mind  .  .  ." 

Her  thoughts  whirled  beyond  her  power  to  collect 
them.  If  she  slipped  now,  she  knew  she  could  never 
bring  herself  to  the  point  again. 

"If  he  is  like  other  men,"  a  flash  of  forked  lightning 
cut  through  the  clouds  of  her  brain,  "I  have  no  place 
in  his  life — no  use — it  would  be  impossible — unendur- 
able!" 

She  twisted  the  lace  frill  of  her  sleeve,  her  eyes  down. 

"Of  course,  if  you  feel  so  strongly,"  she  began,  very 

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low,  and  her  glance  fell  on  the  amethyst  bangle  on  her 
wrist.  In  a  twinkling  James  Vrooman's  face  leaped  be- 
fore her ;  she  saw  the  subtle,  amused  smile  on  his  lips : 
nothing  would  have  surprised  him.  No  ardent  ascetic, 
like  Francis,  no  student  of  cool  blood,  like  Hugh,  he 
could  look  ahead,  he  could  realize  the  emptiness,  the 
terror  that  threatened  her,  either  way.  Of  two  evils 
would  he  perhaps  advise  her  to  choose  the  less?  His 
subtle  smile  held  great  knowledge  of  human  nature,  great 
understanding  .  .  .  the  faceted,  purple  stones  winked  at 
her.  But  suddenly  her  father's  honest  eyes  faced  them 
bravely;  she  threw  off  his  tolerant,  comprehending  smile 
with  a  gesture  of  violent  decision. 

"You  may  be  right,  Hugh,"  she  said,  "but  you  must 
go.  I — I  must  make  him  see  it.  It's  impossible — no  stone 
must  be  left  unturned.  Please  urge  him — I  beg  of 
you!" 

"I  will  go  this  moment,"  he  said  quietly,  and  left  her,, 
fatigued  to  the  very  marrow  of  her  soul. 

When  he  joined  her,  later,  his  own  face  was  drawn 
and  tired. 

"I  shouldn't  object  to  some  of  your  tea,"  he  con- 
fessed. "Honestly,  it  was  a  tug!" 

His  eyes  softened  and  he  smiled  to  himself.  "He's 
wonderful — old  Ted !"  he  murmured,  and  drank  deeply 
of  her  fragrant  cup. 

"Well?    Well?"  she  urged  impatiently. 

He  came  back  out  of  his  reminiscent  dream  and  be- 
gan to  speak,  softly,  at  first,  as  if  fearful  that  Gard 
might  hear  him,  and  a  little  disconnectedly. 

"Of  course,  we  ought  to  have  thought,"  he  said,  "we 
might  have  guessed  .  .  .  he's  so  loyal  to  his  father,  you 
see,  so  afraid  the  old  gentleman  might  be  criticized  .  .  . 

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wild  horses  couldn't  have  dragged  it  from  him  if  he'd 
thought  one  would  misunderstand  .  .  .  there  was  only 
one  doctor,  you  see,  Mrs.  Card,  ever." 

He  paused,  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  digest  this  amaz- 
ing fact,  but  Evelyn,  who  already  knew  this,  only  nodded. 

"Go  on,  Hugh,  go  on,"  she  said. 

"I  mean,  there  never  was  any  consultation  whatso- 
ever," he  explained  carefully,  doubting  if  she  under- 
stood. "It  seems  incredible,  but  there  wasn't.  And 
that  doctor  seems  to  have  been  a  local  physician,  who 
undoubtedly  called  it  spinal  paralysis,  and  ordered 
crutches  and  a  bed  after  the  first  few  weeks.  Ted  says 
he  remembers  trying  so  hard  to  stand  without  his 
crutches,  as  his  father  begged  him,  and  getting  such  bad 
falls  that  they  were  both  thoroughly  scared,  and  gave 
it  up.  There  was  no  feeling  whatever  in  the  legs,  he 
says,  and  his  feet  were  perfectly  nwmb.  He  was  a  year 
on  his  bed,  and  it  was  some  time  after  that  that  his 
father  began  to  rub  him,  but  he  began  to  grow  very  fast 
after  that  and  got  terribly  timid  about  falls.  You  see, 
they  had  no  doubt  it  was  final  .  .  .  good  heavens,  sup- 
pose we'd  never  known  all  this!  Suppose  you  hadn't 
insisted  .  .  .  Oh,  poor  old  Swenson !  When  I  think  how 
I  shut  him  up  ...  and  all  the  time  he  was " 

"Wait,  wait!"  she  warned  him.  "Don't  go  too  fast! 
It  is  only  a  chance,  remember." 

"A  chance  ?  When  no  doctor  has  seen  him  for  twenty- 
five  years?  My  dear  lady,  that  alters  the  whole  thing, 
to  my  mind.  And  I  can  tell  you  this :  I  wouldn't  swear 
that  old  Ted  hasn't  thought  of  it,  now  and  then." 

"What?" 

For  once  he  had  moved  her :  she  stared  at  him  amazed, 
incredulous. 

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-iTou  see,  his  father  was  such  a  fatalist  .  .  .  really, 
I  should  like  to  have  met  Mr.  Card,  senior  .  .  .  most 
extraordinary  character  .  .  ." 

Hugh  mused  for  a  moment. 

"You  think  my  husband  has  considered ?" 

"I  think  nothing  on  earth  would  make  Ted  admit  that 
his  father  left  anything  undone,"  said  Hugh  simply. 

"Ah !" 

She  looked  backward,  in  silence.  So  that  was  it.  No 
wonder  she  had  run  against  that  impenetrable  wall,  that 
inexplicable  indifference  to  such  an  offered  future. 

"You  saw  it,  of  course,  I  mean,"  he  added  clumsily. 
"You  see  what  he  feels,  now?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  see  what  he  feels — now." 

And  there  and  then  settled  down  upon  her  the  dull 
pain  that  was  to  grow  into  her  days  and  nights  unceas- 
ingly. This  was  the  last  blow  of  all — that  she  should 
not  have  understood.  How  little  she  had  ever  known 
him!  An  hour  with  Hugh,  and  everything  was  clear. 
Even  this,  her  greatest  sacrifice,  all  her  future  thrown 
into  his  hands,  she  could  not  make  alone:  another  must 
so  present  the  cup  that  he  would  drink  it.  It  had  come 
to  this:  so  little  did  she  know  him  that  she  could  not 
even  benefit  him  supremely! 

Something  of  her  great  trouble  came  for  the  first  time, 
though  dimly,  to  Finister.  Without  knowing  why,  he 
pitied  her. 

"You  see,  dear  Mrs.  Card,"  he  said  gently,  "a  man, 
you  know,  talks  easier  to  another  man  ...  it  doesn't  so 
much  matter  to  Ted,  you  see,  if  /  misjudged  his  gov- 
ernor— it's  you  he  can't  bear  .  .  ." 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Hugh,  for  winning  him  over," 
she  interrupted  quietly.  "It — it  has  been  on  my  mind  for 

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a  long  time.  I  suppose  you  can  find  out  whom  we  had 
better  consult?  I  should  like  it  kept  as  quiet  as  pos- 
sible  " 

"Rather !  There's  no  doubt  it'd  better  be  that  big  Ger- 
man fellow,  is  there?  You  have  to  go  over  to  him, 
though,  I  believe.  You  know — the  one  that  made  that 
billionaire's  child  of  yours  in  the  States  walk  last  year? 
Blaikie  was  telling  us  about  it.  Ted  would  go,  wouldn't 
he?" 

"If  you  ask  him,"  she  said  with  a  faint,  little  smile. 
But  she  met  his  eyes  so  squarely  (though  so  fleetly),  she 
gave  him  her  hand  so  kindly,  that  he  could  hardly  tell 
how  much  she  meant  by  the  sad  little  answer. 

The  "big  German  fellow"  was  not  judged  necessary, 
however;  at  any  rate,  for  the  first  steps.  Francis  was 
so  eager  to  have  his  own  countryman  and  Oxford  chum 
pronounce  on  the  case,  the  verdict  of  the  great  surgeon 
was  so  hopeful,  his  strong  recommendation  of  the  new 
electric  currents  offered  so  much,  that  the  treatment  was 
begun  in  London. 

Card,  who  had  supposed  his  case  unique,  was  slowly 
but  surely  impressed  by  the  history  upon  history  which, 
under  Sir  Anthony's  orders,  they  read  and  discussed 
with  him.  Not  the  least  part  of  his  treatment  was  the 
mental  tonic  of  these  cases,  authenticated  all,  described 
in  endless  detail;  and  from  the  day  he  spent  in  Sir  An- 
thony's special  hospital,  talking  eagerly  with  the  pale  lad 
of  sixteen,  just  beginning  to  use  his  legs  after  three  years 
in  a  hammock,  they  dated  the  first  signs  of  a  change  of 
attitude.  They  were  lucky  enough  to  find,  after  long 
search,  the  brother  of  a  famous  Australian  polo  player, 
who  had  brought  back  silver  cups  to  the  proud  father 
who  had  watched  him  drag  about  seven  years  on  crutches 

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— even  to  catch  the  sportsman  himself,  a  month  later, 
and  allow  Card  to  shake  his  hand  and  talk  with  him.  The 

famous  case  of  Mr.  A ,  bedridden  for  twenty  years 

in  a  tiny  town  in  New  York  State,  who  leaped  out  of 
bed  and  saved  his  blind  old  mother  from  their  burning 
house,  was  attested  by  a  villageful  of  witnesses;  as  to 

William  H ,  who  carried  self-imposed  crutches  twelve 

years  to  gain  a  Civil  War  pension,  and  ended  in  an  actual 
paralysis,  defying  every  known  remedy — this  case,  in 
regard  to  which  Sir  Anthony  held  many  detailed  af- 
fidavits and  photographs,  for  some  reason  appealed  most 
deeply  to  their  patient.  There,  as  nowhere  else,  was 
exhibited  the  dread  power  of  the  idee  fixe:  there,  though 
Card  never  knew  that  he  thought  so,  Sir  Anthony  laid 
the  causes  of  all  the  votive  crutches  at  the  shrine  of  Our 
Lady  of  Lourdes ! 

Once  the  loyal,  big  fellow  was  assured  that  no  shadow 
of  prejudice  could  attach  to  his  father  for  accepting  local 
opinion,  for,  as  they  all  agreed,  he  had  no  other  (Evelyn 
smiled  bitterly  to  herself,  picturing  their  simple  idea  of 
a  settled  little  English  village,  secure  in  its  hereditary 
surgeon),  he  set  himself  honestly  to  try  to  believe  in  all 
they  promised  him,  since,  as  was  readily  ascertained,  there 
was  no  slightest  lesion  of  the  spinal  cord. 

He  seems  [Hugh  wrote  to  Charlotte]  quite  contented,  now 
he  knows  that  Anthony  fully  believes  that  he  was,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  paralyzed  during  the  year  after  the 
scarlet  fever,  and  would  have  had  to  lie  abed,  anyhow.  He 
feels  that  this  saves  face  for  his  father,  somehow,  since  the 
old  gentleman  was  far  too  much  of  a  pessimist  to  go  on  after 
that.  He  told  me  once,  lately,  while  he  was  sitting  strapped 
to  some  contrivance  of  Anthony's,  trying  to  work  his  thigh 
and  calf  muscles  without  any  help  from  the  shoulders  or 

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back  (a  frightfully  difficult  thing  for  the  poor  beggar,  I 
assure  you!),  that  when  he  tried  to  wriggle  over  the  floor, 
when  he  was  about  fourteen,  with  his  hands  holding  his 
ankles,  which  he  could  have  done,  his  father  cried  and  made 
him  promise  never  to  do  it  again !  So  he  never  did. 

Just  picture  it,  Sharley — that  handsome  boy,  bent  over  like 
the  frog-prince  in  the  fairy  tale,  shuffling  along  on  the  floor, 
and  the  big,  strong  Hercules  of  a  father  weeping  over  him ! 
I  tell  you,  it  gave  me  a  shudder. 

Another  thing,  that  clears  it  all  up  for  me.  From  what 
Ted  told  me,  I  am  quite  convinced  that  they  didn't  get  their 
money  till  much  later.  That  alone,  you  see,  explains  why 
they  took  no  other  advice.  Remember  how  old  Nurse's  sis- 
ter's boy  was  crippled  after  erysipelas,  and  they  couldn't 
afford  to  get  him  to  London?  She  often  told  us  about  poor 
little  Joe  and  his  crutches.  And  I  suppose  the  Cards  were 
hundreds  of  miles  from  New  York  or  Chicago  or  Boston. 

Anthony,  you  see,  would  have  hung  a  weight  on  Joe's  leg, 
and  turned  static  and  Faradic  currents  on  him,  and  strapped 
him  on  his  back  for  half  an  hour  twice  a  day.  I  tell  Ted  all 
these  things  and  he  swallows  them  down  like  one  o'clock. 

Dessars  rooted  out  a  long  tale  of  a  chap  down  in  Surrey, 
on  one  of  their  farms,  that  was  crippled  after  the  "spotted 
fever"  (by  the  way,  Anthony  thinks  Ted  really  had  spinal 
meningitis,  not  scarlet  fever)  and  went  on  crutches,  drag- 
ging his  feet  after  him ;  and  when  they  utterly  failed  to  cure 
him  at  the  hospital  the  Dessars  sent  him  to,  and  he  actually 
broke  his  nose,  falling,  after  they  took  away  his  crutches, 
dropped  them  and  ran  half  across  a  field,  chased  by  one  of 
the  family  bulls,  and  climbed  a  tree !  I  tell  you,  that  cheered 
old  Ted  up  for  the  day. 

I'm  quite  sure  that's  why  his  education  was  neglected  so. 
You  see,  his  governor  couldn't  afford  a  tutor  at  first  nor  a 
public  school,  of  course,  and  just  left  it  to  servants,  I  sup- 
pose— he  seems  to  have  been  a  great  sportsman  himself,  and 
furious  because  the  boy  couldn't  hunt  or  fish  with  him — and 

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when  they  set  up  the  little  abbe,  all  he  cared  for,  of  course, 
was  French  and  religion — you  know  what  they  are. 

I  picture  him — Card  senior,  you  know,  something  like 
Squire  Western  in  "Tom  Jones." 

It  drew  in  to  a  warm  June;  the  geraniums  flamed  in 
the  window-boxes  of  Berkeley  Square;  Piccadilly  ebbed 
and  flowed  like  the  sea.  Evelyn  followed  Georgie  about, 
grateful  for  someone  who  needed  her.  The  girl  had 
grown  thin,  had  lost  some  of  her  hard,  bright  certainties : 
sometimes  Evelyn  caught  her  eyes  fixed  questioningly  on 
her  older  cousin,  but  she  asked  no  questions.  Nelly 
Schermer  found  her  much  improved  and  more  than 
hinted  at  an  indefinite  extension  of  her  visit. 

"At  any  rate,  till  she,  er,  settles  down,"  said  Mrs. 
Schermer,  sipping  her  tea  comfortably  out  of  Hilary's 
old  black  Wedgewood  cup. 

"I  suppose  there's  no  doubt  as  to  this  young  d'Acunha's 
standing,  Evie?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  Evelyn  returned  politely.  "Why  do 
you  ask,  Cousin  Nelly?" 

"Why?  My  dear  girl!  Surely  you  don't  pretend  to 
know  that  Georgie's  mad  about  him?  Jane  wrote  that 
friend  of  Christine's  in  Bermuda,  long  ago,  and  she  found 
out  from  Miss  Finister  all  about  his  mother,  she  was  a 
Miss  Cora  Somebody — what  was  it? — her  father  was 
one  of  those  rich  sugar  men.  Georgie,  you  know,  must 
have  someone  of  that  type,  apparently,  and  he  seems  per- 
fectly straight  and  is  certainly  awfully  attractive." 

"I  don't  understand  ...  do  you  mean  that  Georgie — 
that  Manuel — absurd,  Cousin  Nelly!" 

"It  doesn't  seem  absurd  to  anybody  but  you,  Evelyn," 
said  Nelly  briskly.  "I  can  assure  you  of  that.  They  like 

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the  same  things ;  Georgie's  crazy  about  hunting  and  sail- 
ing; her  French,  thank  goodness,  is  all  right,  if  they  live 
abroad,  although  Miss  Finister  told  Christine's  friend 
that  his  mother  was  most  anxious  for  him  to  undertake 
the  care  of  her  father's  property  in  America,  or  else  man- 
age his  father's  interests  in  Buenos  Ayres — he's  really 
a  junior  partner  there  now,  and  they  say  out  there  that 
he  has  a  great  deal  of  business  ability  if  he  cares  to  use 
it.  They  say  that  Buenos  Ayres  is  perfectly  fascinating 
— like  Paris  in  many  ways,  and  Georgie  loves  those  queer 
foreign  places.  She's  nearly  twenty-three,  you  know, 
Evie,  and  I  must  say  she  looks  fully  twenty-five — all  this 
sport  is  very  trying  to  the  complexion,  in  my  opinion." 

"But  .  .  .  why  should  you  imagine  .  .  .  really,  Cousin 
Nelly,  it's  not — it  can't  be,  as  you  suppose  .  .  ." 

"Then  may  I  ask  why  you  have  allowed  him  to  run 
about  after  her  so?" 

Cousin  Nelly  looked  hard  at  her,  and  it  seemed  to  Eve- 
lyn that  if  any  more  complications  occurred  in  her  vexed 
and  wearied  existence  she  could  hardly  support  them. 

"Why  .  .  .  Manuel  is  very  much  attached  to  all  of 
us,"  she  began  faintly,  "he  was  constantly  with  us  in 
Bermuda  ...  I  myself,"  she  paused  a  moment,  then  got 
herself  in  hand  and  met  Nelly's  searching  eye  frankly,  "I 
dance  with  him  more  than  with  anyone — or  did,  till  I 
gave  it  up." 

"Oh,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  Cousin  Nelly  hastily, 
"and  very  nice  for  you  to  have  a  young  man  to  dance 
with,  Evie,  dear,  but  this  is  a  very  different  matter. 
Since  that  ball  at  the  Dessars  he  has  been  really  very 
attentive,  indeed,  and  it's  been  mentioned  more  than 
once  to  me.  Of  course,  as  I'm  sailing  day  after  to-mor- 
row, I  wanted  something  definite  to  take  back  to  Jane. 

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If,  in  your  opinion,  it  means  nothing,  Georgie'd  better 
go  to  the  Ogden  Jays  for  a  while — I  hoped  you'd  know. 
You  don't  think  he's  at  all  ...  ?" 

"I  will  try  to  see  what  can  be  done — I  think  you 
exaggerate,"  Evelyn  answered  stiffly,  and  her  reserve  left 
Mrs.  Schermer  deeply  puzzled,  but  not  resentful,  because, 
as  she  wrote  Jane  Stuyvers,  Evie  would  be  sure  to  feel 
responsible  for  Georgie,  after  that. 

Evelyn  had  hardly  seen  Manuel  since  that  night  at 
the  Dessars.  In  her  strange  confession  to  Father  Francis 
which  alternately  humiliated  and  comforted  her  in  mem- 
ory, she  had  said  only  that  a  sudden  experience  with  a 
man  had  opened  her  eyes  to  the  desperately  weak  and 
unsteady  state  of  her  whole  nature,  and  shocked  her 
into  immediate  confession  of  the  secret  that  so  weighed 
upon  her;  she  had  gone  into  no  details  and  he  had  asked 
for  none.  Accustomed  to  the  cure  of  souls,  he  had  in- 
stantly perceived  that  the  greater  matter  included  the 
less,  that  in  the  fact  as  well  as  in  her  mind,  her  relation 
to  her  husband  was  far  more  crucial  than  her  relation  to 
any  other  man.  It  was  impossible  for  him  not  to  under- 
stand, now,  that  what  he  had  supposed  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and  beautiful  love  matches  he  had  ever  known 
was  nothing  of  the  sort,  but  a  bargain,  pure  and  simple ; 
a  bargain,  moreover,  executed  in  such  good  faith,  that 
any  change  in  the  condition  of  the  parties  to  it  must 
necessarily  involve  such  confusion  as  a  subtle  mind  like 
his  own  could  not  fail  to  grasp.  This  was  no  case  for 
rough  and  ready  rule-of-thumb :  if  he  suspected  Manuel, 
he  did  not  fear  him,  nor  warn  Evelyn  any  further  than 
he  knew  she  had  warned  herself. 

Nor  did  Manuel  annoy  her.  Since  that  night  she  had 
not  danced,  and  the  Portuguese,  noting  it,  kept  away, 

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and  devoted  himself  to  Georgie,  who  bloomed  under  his 
notice,  and  gave  Evelyn  only  the  friendliest  of  smiles,  the 
frankest  of  glances. 

On  the  advice  of  Sir  Anthony,  they  moved  to  the  coun- 
try, where,  urged  by  Francis,  they  established  them- 
selves in  a  cottage  shared  by  him  and  Hilary,  an  easy 
walk  from  Holm's  Hangar,  the  great  house  in  Surrey 
where  they  and  Audrey  had  been  born  and  bred.  Twice 
in  the  week  Card  and  Hugh  and  Moggridge  motored 
to  town  for  the  electric  treatment :  on  these  days  Audrey 
entertained  them,  for  she  loved  London  in  the  heat,  she 
said.  Her  mother  sulked  at  Holm's  Hangar,  and  Francis 
worked  among  his  poor,  white- faced  and  at  peace. 

On  the  first  of  August,  Sir  Anthony,  delaying  his 
course  of  German  waters  from  interest  in  his  patient, 
took  away  the  wheeled  chair;  Card  set  his  teeth  and 
shuffled  between  crutches  so  shortened  that  the  strain 
upon  the  forearm  bent  the  strong  wood.  Sir  Anthony 
fled  to  Baden  for  a  fortnight,  and  returned  to  confiscate 
the  crutches  and  leave  in  their  place  two  stout  canes. 
The  big,  patient  man  shivered  slightly,  was  helped  to  his 
obedient  feet,  swayed  like  an  uprooted  oak,  and  fell  heav- 
ily: they  were  sickened  with  fright,  and  Hugh  refused 
to  help  again  with  that  experiment.  The  scientist-peer 
was  obstinate ;  Gard  was  badly  shaken  and  begged  for  the 
crutches;  by  the  time  the  shooting  began  he  was  back 
in  his  chair. 

Evelyn's  face  by  now  was  a  mask.  No  one  knew  what 
she  felt,  nor  did  anyone  dare  to  ask  her. 

I'm  afraid  [Hugh  wrote]  that  she  won't  forgive  me.  It's 
plowed  us  all  up  pretty  well,  and  God  knows  I'm  sorry 
enough  we  went  at  it  at  all.  Ted  has  admitted  at  last  that 

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all  those  exercises  hurt  him  almost  unbearably,  and  that  his 
arms  are  strained  with  those  damnable  short  crutches.  His 
legs  sting  like  knives,  half  the  time,  and  Moggridge  is  up  all 
night  with  him — he  looks  dreadfully.  Sir  Anthony  persists 
it's  all  mental,  now,  and  he's  in  his  own  power,  but  if  you 
had  seen  him  fall — it  was  sickening ! 

What  makes  it  all  worse  is  that  the  creation  of  this  new 
Naval  Commission  and  my  appointment  to  it  will  keep  me 
in  or  near  London  indefinitely,  and  Mrs.  Card,  who  wanted 
to  go  to  Egypt  for  the  winter  (as  I  did,  myself,  you  know) 
won't  hear  of  taking  Ted  without  me.  It's  rather  odd,  for 
I  was  sure,  at  one  time,  she'd  have  been  glad  to  be  rid  of 
me  and  had  almost  intended  to  throw  up  my  job — it's  absurd, 
my  accepting  a  salary  from  Ted.  But  she  wouldn't  hear  of 
separating  us,  and  when  she  broke  down  and  fairly  cried 
and  insisted  that  nothing  would  bring  him  back  to  himself 
again  like  our  old  study,  of  mornings,  and  begged  me  to 
arrange  it,  I  had  to  agree.  Wasn't  that  right? 

The  Commission  rarely  meets  more  than  thrice  in  the 
week,  and  the  alternate  days  I'm  to  spend  with  them:  Mrs. 
Card  has  no  idea  of  coming  to  town,  it  appears.  There's  a 
fairly  smooth  path  up  to  Holm's  Hangar,  and  Miss  Dessars 
has  all  sorts  of  music  for  us.  She's  given  up  her  shooting, 
over  the  dogs,  I  mean,  and  she  and  Ted  have  taken  to  trap- 
shooting — he's  a  wonderful  shot.  It's  undoubtedly  kind  of 
her — she's  a  strange,  contradictory  creature. 

Miss  Stuyvers  doesn't  shoot,  and  has  gone  on  the  Conti- 
nent with  some  American  friends.  She  has  grown  to  resem- 
ble Mrs.  Card  immensely — I  suppose  the  likeness  was  always 
there,  but  being  with  her  so  constantly,  she  has  altered  the 
tones  of  her  voice,  and  some  of  her  gestures  are  Mrs.  Card 
to  the  life — we  all  remark  it.  How  curious  these  family 
traits  are! 

Your  precious  imp,  Manuel,  is  coming  to  the  Hangar  for 
Miss  Dessars'  costume  ball.  All  the  county  assists,  and  I  am 
to  be  Julius  Caesar,  I  believe;  Mrs.  Card,  Cornelia,  with 

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Heatherslough's  honorable  nieces  for  her  jewels;  Ted,  I 
suppose,  some  emperor  on  a  throne — it's  all  of  a  vast  se- 
crecy. Mile.  Audrey,  of  course,  Cleopatra. 

It  was  November  before  Audrey's  pageantry  was  thor- 
oughly in  order.  Georgia  had  returned  with  the  most 
approved  Parisian  inspiration  as  to  Iphigenia's  costume, 
and  Manuel  drove  theatrical  tailors  to  desperation  with 
his  punctilious  details  in  the  matter  of  Hannibal's  attire. 
Those  petite  Honorables,  Joan,  Clarice  and  Ethelred,  de- 
liciously  toga-ed,  twisted  their  pink  toes  into  white  kid 
sandals  and  twined  amiably  about  their  Roman  mother. 
Evelyn,  with  long,  windy  walks  and  good  country  cook- 
ing, had  gained  weight  and  bloom,  her  eyes  were  soft 
and  calm;  as  the  children  pressed  against  her  breast, 
she  looked  out,  matronly,  from  under  level,  placid  brows. 

Card,  more  irritable  than  they  had  ever  seen  him,  obvi- 
ously dependent  upon  Hugh,  now,  and  fretful  during  his 
absences,  was  to  lie,  a  glorious  Mark  Antony,  upon  a 
couch  draped  with  cloth  of  gold,  his  crutches  concealed 
behind  it.  Moggridge,  curiously  British  in  his  Roman 
gear,  stood  at  the  hero's  head;  a  county  member  and  a 
self-conscious  baronet  flanked  him  on  other  couches, 
making  a  loose  semi-circle,  before  which,  filled  out  with 
cup-bearers  and  flower-girls,  negro  slaves  and  captains 
of  the  Imperial  Guard,  Cleopatra  was  to  dance.  White 
columns,  connected  with  wreaths  of  red  roses,  stood 
about  the  ballroom,  on  each  a  great  marble  jar  of  growing 
plants  or  a  heavy  cluster  of  lights. 

Audrey  had  directed  the  whole ;  a  noted  actor-manager 
had  named  her  one  of  the  greatest  actresses  of  her 
generation.  No  one  had  seen  her  costume:  her  dancing 
was  always  an  inspired  impromptu. 

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Theirs  was  the  final  tableau  before  the  evening's  ball; 
the  others,  posed  in  a  great  gold  frame  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  room,  were  a  credit  to  Audrey's  management. 
Iphigenia  at  her  altar,  with  Flacke  Heatherslough,  mas- 
sive as  the  black-bearded  priest,  was  voted  the  most 
striking  picture;  Cornelia  and  her  Jewels  won  the  long- 
est applause. 

The  frame  was  removed  and  the  crowd  gathered  be- 
fore the  red  and  gold  curtain,  pleased  with  themselves, 
eager  for  the  next  excitement.  To  Francis  Dessars, 
standing  patiently  at  one  side,  waiting  till  his  mother 
should  allow  him  to  go  to  his  bed,  they  seemed  like 
nervous,  hungry  children. 

Slowly  the  curtains  parted  and  they  sighed  their  pleas- 
ure: it  was  a  scene  from  Alma-Tadema,  made  flesh  for 
them. 

Card,  in  crimson  cloak  and  silver  armor,  a  great  hel- 
met on  his  Jove-like  head,  his  mighty  neck  bare,  was  a 
sight  to  fill  the  eyes :  it  was  incredible  that  he  should 
not  stalk  down  the  room  and  overwhelm  them  all.  The 
other  men  were  mere  foils  for  his  rich,  massive  figure. 
And  the  women,  handsome,  dark-eyed  slave  girls  with 
stained  arms,  not  all  their  combined  beauty  could  make 
them  anything  but  a  background  for  the  golden  cloud 
that  drifted  in  across  the  open  space,  the  Serpent  her- 
self, Audrey,  draped  in  tissue  of  sheerest  golden  gauze, 
wreathed  with  chain  upon  chain  of  amber,  her  red  braids 
woven  with  seed  pearls,  her  scarlet  lips  set  in  a  faint, 
subtle  smile.  Her  pale,  slender  feet  were  gold-sandaled, 
her  bare  arms  gleamed,  as  all  her  body  gleamed,  dim  pearl 
through  the  golden  gauze;  a  tiny  emerald  snake  clung 
about  her  little  head,  as  round  as  an  apple. 

Low  before  the  deep-eyed  Antony  she  bowed,  while 
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her  red  braids  lay  along  the  floor,  and  then,  to  the  beat 
of  strange  Eastern  drums  that  shook  the  blood  and  the 
thin  wail  of  flutes  that  shivered  into  endless  tunes  of 
no  beginning,  she  danced. 

They  watched  her,  enthralled.  Only  her  brother 
pressed  his  lips  together  in  displeasure  and  turned  away 
his  eyes.  But  the  sighing  wonder  of  the  crowd,  closing 
in  upon  him,  forced  him  to  look  at  her  again.  And  this 
time  he  frowned  and  stared  with  the  rest,  for  it  was  not 
in  human  nature  to  miss  what  she  was  doing:  she  was 
dancing  for  Mark  Antony  alone.  Oblivious  of  all  the 
rest  as  though  they  had  been  stuffed  figures,  she  fixed 
her  gaze  on  Card  and  swayed  and  bent  and  floated  there 
for  him.  In  the  great,  fundamental  pantomime  of  the 
human  race  from  the  beginning,  she  gave  and  took  and 
gave  again ;  one  living,  breathing  impulse,  from  the  quiv- 
ering green  snake  above  her  forehead  to  the  gold  sandals 
on  her  weaving  feet,  she  sank  and  rose  and  drooped  and 
bloomed  again — each  time  a  little  nearer  to  his  couch. 

And  in  his  wondering  face,  so  mobile  that  her  every 
lovely  gesture  was  reflected  there,  they  saw,  slowly  grow- 
ing, the  passion  she  was  dancing  into  existence.  Pressed 
against  one  of  the  pillars,  a  child  in  either  arm,  Evelyn 
Card,  incredulous  and  terrified,  watched  what  had  never 
before  been  to  see  in  his  eyes,  knowledge  of  woman's 
beauty  and  desire  of  it.  Moment  by  moment  it  grew,  so 
plain  that  the  delighted  audience,  convinced  that  they 
were  assisting  at  a  great  dramatic  triumph,  amazed  at 
such  genius,  burst  into  irresistible  applause  and  cried  out 
with  delight;  men  and  women  trembled  with  sympathy; 
the  moment  was  electric. 

Nearer  and  nearer  she  floated ;  slowly  he  opened  his 
arms,  with  his  eyes  deep  in  her  beauty;  the  drums  beat 

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slower  and  slower.  Evelyn,  white  and  faint,  bit  her  lips 
to  keep  herself  upright — ah,  that  look  in  his  eyes!  His 
parted  lips,  the  appeal  of  his  open  arms ! 

Now  she  knelt  by  the  couch,  she  leaned  her  face  to 
his,  a  breath,  and  she  would  have  kissed  him — the  audi- 
ence waited  for  it.  A  wave  of  nausea  swept  over  the 
white  woman  by  the  pillar,  she  shut  her  eyes,  not  to 
see. 

But  Audrey  had  slipped  away,  unkissed,  like  a  sun- 
beam and  posed,  laughing,  at  the  edge  of  the  half-circle 
— Card  had  started  to  a  sitting  posture  on  the  couch, 
stretching  his  arms  out  to  her. 

The  audience,  gasping,  disappointed,  had  eyes  only 
for  him;  Evelyn  distinctly  saw  the  pulse  throbbing  in 
his  temple.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  die  of  shame 
and  rage — she  wished  that  they  were  dead,  both  of  them, 
and  herself  with  them. 

Her  eyes  fastened  on  his,  she  caught  the  change  in 
them,  saw  a  sudden  terror  darken  them.  She  followed 
his  glance  and  saw,  swaying  on  its  pilaster  over  Audrey's 
head,  the  heavy  marble  urn :  Manuel  in  his  excitement  had 
leaned  his  weight  against  the  pillar  suddenly.  She  stood, 
frozen,  the  thing  tottered,  leaned  .  .  .  Card  gave  a 
hoarse  shriek  of  warning. 

"Audrey!    O  Christ!" 

Before  their  eyes  he  leaped  from  the  cloth  of  gold 
couch,  took  three  great  strides  across  the  shallow  semi- 
circle, caught  her  in  his  arms  and  dragged  her  away. 
******* 

At  his  advance  the  crowd  had  pressed  hastily  back, 
uncertain  if  the  play  were  to  require  more  space.  Only 
three  had  been  in  line  with  her,  and  they  were  the  first 
to  move:  the  jar  fell  with  a  crash,  harmless,  and  rolled 

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heavily  on  its  side,  spilling  the  fresh  earth  and  the  rooted 
flowers. 

The  people  parted  into  aisles,  and  Card,  holding  the 
slender,  gauze-veiled  thing  to  his  heart,  strode  down  the 
room — to  Evelyn,  dizzy,  grasping  the  children's  shoul- 
ders, it  seemed  like  the  mechanical  action  of  some  hor- 
rible wax-work  figure  .  .  .  would  he  never  stop  walk- 
ing? The  music  had  ceased  abruptly,  in  the  dead  silence 
only  the  beat  of  his  sandaled  feet  echoed  through  the 
room. 

Men  as  trees  walking  .  .  .  men  as  trees  walking  .  .  . 

she  thought,  and  then,  dragging  on  the  frightened  chil- 
dren, she  fell  into  a  soft  blackness  that  rose  up  to  meet 
and  envelop  her;  she  heard  them  scream  as  her  fingers 
pinched  their  soft  shoulders,  then  heard  nothing  more 
at  all  ... 

A  cold  wind  blew  on  her  damp  temples,  and  Manuel's 
voice  in  her  ear  said  words  she  began  to  understand. 

"All  right.  Everything  is  all  right.  He  is  resting. 
Dessars  and  Finister  got  to  him.  Nobody  is  at  all  hurt. 
Very  few  will  even  know  you  fainted,  if  you  can  get 
up.  Do  you  see?" 

She  was  lying  on  a  divan  in  the  smoking-room  in  an 
open  French  window. 

"Drink  a  little  of  my  whisky — I  needed  some  myself, 
I  can  tell  you !  Just  imagine  it !  Can  you  sit  up  ?" 

She  swallowed  once  or  twice  and  rose. 

"Where  is — where  is " 

"Dessars  sent  her  up  to  bed,"  he  said  quickly.  "You 
won't  see  her  again.  They  are  all  dancing — it  seemed 

better.    Can  you  walk  now,  or  shall  I " 

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"Of  course,"  she  said.  "I  never  did  that  before — but 
once — in  my  life,  Manuel.  It  was  only  .  .  ." 

She  began  to  shiver  violently,  and  he  took  off  his 
tawny  velvet  mantle  and  wrapped  her  in  it.  Under  her 
Roman  fillet  she  was  deadly  pale. 

"I  know.  The  shock.  It  was — it  was "  he  paused 

and  shook  his  head.  "Finister  and  the  padre  are  tele- 
phoning to  Sir  Anthony — or  trying  to.  Everybody  is 
much  excited.  But  they  will  eat  their  supper." 

As  she  continued  to  look  thoughtfully  before  her,  he 
made  an  uneasy  movement  toward  the  door. 

"They  all  think  you  are  with — with  him,"  he  said 
swiftly.  "Can  I  take  you  .  .  .  ?" 

"I  ?"  she  asked.  "Take  me  ?  You  mean  I  ought  to  go 
to  bed?  Perhaps  I  ought.  Call  the  car,  will  you,  Man- 
uel?" 

"But — but  he  is  stopping  here,"  said  Manuel  with  em- 
barrassment. "He  is  better  here,  they  think.  Undoubt- 
edly, they  will  have  arranged  a  room  for  you " 

"That's  quite  unnecessary,"  she  said  calmly.  "I  know 
they're  very  crowded  to-night.  Moggridge  will  stay,  of 
course,  but  surely  Hugh  and  I  will  go  home?" 

He   hesitated,   but   she   turned    cold   eyes   upon  him. 

"I  shall  not  stay  in  this  house,"  she  said.  "Find  Hugh 
for  me,  please." 

He  bowed  and  left  her.  She  looked  down  and  saw  the 
bangle  on  her  wrist  and  started  suddenly,  then  rose  and 
walked  from  the  smoking-room  through  a  twisting  little 
hall  and  up  a  narrow  stairway.  This  led  to  the  great 
upper  hall,  and  as  she  entered  it  the  music  of  a  waltz 
rushed  up  to  her. 

Off  to  the  right  was  a  little  sitting-room  with  an  old 
mahogany  desk  in  the  corner.  The  waltz  music  came 

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faintly  in,  while  she  drew  a  chair  before  the  desk,  pulled 
at  the  electric  light  over  it  and  fumbled  among  the 
drawers.  A  small  pasteboard  box  held  fresh  postcards  in 
a  lower  drawer.  These  she  emptied  out,  drew  off  the 
bangle,  stuffed  the  box  tight  with  crumpled  paper,  made 
it  firm  with  elastic  bands,  wrapped  it  well  in  a  double 
sheet  of  stiff  paper,  addressed  and  sealed  it. 

Everything  seemed  very  clear  to  her:  there  was  only 
a  little  while  to  wait,  and  then  they  would  end  it,  some- 
how. Her  life  stretched,  an  empty  series  of  dim,  color- 
less years,  up  to  a  blazing  circle,  where  a  man  with  hungry 
eyes  clasped  a  golden  doll  to  his  heart,  and  strode  across 
the  world  with  her.  That  look  on  his  face !  Those  eyes 
that  burned  on  Audrey  Dessars ! 

The  thing  had  happened  that  she  had  feared  all  sum- 
mer— and  she  feared  it  no  more  and  cared  about  it  no 
more.  There  was  only  one  thing  that  mattered  in  her 
life — that  look  on  his  face! 

"Ah!  Here  you  are!  Where  have  you  been,  Mrs. 
Card?  We  heard  you  had  fainted,  and  as  soon  as  we 
were  sure  Ted  was  all  right  .  .  .  thank  God,  Anthony 
was  right,  all  the  time!  I  hoped  you  could  have  seen 
him  before  he  went  to  sleep,  but  we'd  better  not  risk 
waking  him,  had  we?  Manuel  said  you  wanted  to  go 
home — let  me  take  you!  You  won't  have  to  explain: 
everyone  understands.  Ted  went  off  like  a  baby. 

"  'Don't  be  afraid — tell  her  I  can  always  walk  now,'  he 
said." 

Evelyn  took  his  offered  arm. 

"Thank  you,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "I  am  tired.  Of  course 
Dr.  Anthony  always  said  it  would  be  like  this,  you  know. 
We  can  talk  about  it  in  the  morning.  Is  Manuel  any- 
where about?" 

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He  was  amazed  at  her  control. 

"But,  then,  she  fainted,  she  did  faint,"  he  told  him- 
self, and  to  her, 

"I  saw  him  dancing  with  your  cousin — he  sent  me. 
Do  you  want  him?" 

"No,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "no.  I'll  ask  you  to 
attend  to  it.  Will  you  register  this,  early,  Hugh,  and  be 
sure  it  gets  the  boat  to-morrow?  Be  sure?" 

She  seized  his  hands  eagerly;  he  soothed  her  and  led 
her  to  the  waiting  motor. 

"Dessars  will  be  with  him,"  he  said.  "He  won't  leave 
him  all  night.  I'll  come  over  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing— just  think!  Ted  walking!  I  can't  take  it  in  ... 
Oh,  yes,  the  package.  I'll  attend  to  it,  dear  Mrs.  Card, 
you  may  rest  assured.  It's  important?" 

"Very  important,"  said  Evelyn. 

"Then,  when  we  go  back  in  the  morning " 

"I  shall  never  go  back  to  that  house,"  she  said  quietly. 
(That  look  on  his  face!) 


XXIII 

WHEN  James  Vrooman  arrived  in  London  he 
was  met  by  London's  most  fashionable  ecclesi- 
astic, the  Reverend  Father  Francis  Dessars. 
He  learned  that  Mr.  Finister,  Mr.  Card's  secretary  and 
friend,  unfortunately  engaged  with  the  Royal  Navy  Com- 
mission, had  been  forced  to  deny  himself  the  pleasure 
of  accompanying  the  priest;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Card  were 
quartered  at  the  Berkeley  Square,  close  to  Sir  Anthony, 
who  saw  his  patient — hardly  to  be  called  that  now — every 
day.  Mrs.  Card,  not  unnaturally  prostrated  with  the 
strain  and  excitement  of  her  husband's  extraordinary  re- 
covery, had  not  reacted  quite  as  might  have  been  hoped : 
she  had,  in  fact,  a  nurse  with  her,  was  weaker  than 
they  liked,  would  travel  south  as  soon  as  Mr.  Finister 
could  be  spared  to  accompany  them — the  old  Admiral 
had  named  Christmas. 

"By  Mr.  Card's  recovery,  am  I  to  understand " 

"Absolute,  my  dear  Mr.  Vrooman,  so  far  as  we  can 
tell!  Sir  Anthony  has  never  allowed  even  the  use  of 
a  cane,  since  that  night.  He  can  walk  a  mile  easily — 
always,  of  course,  with  two  men :  at  first  he  linked  arms 
with  us,  but  only  at  first." 

"Amazing !    'That  night/  I  think  you  said  ?" 
"Thursday,  the  seventeenth.    Mrs.  Card  insisted  upon 
motoring  to  town  that  night  (we  suppose,  with  some  con- 
fused idea  of  consulting  Sir  Anthony),  took  a  chill  on 

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the  way,  and  has  not  left  the  hotel  since;  her  husband 
came  in  the  next  day.  There  was  some  packet  or  letter 
that  she  was  extremely  desirous  of  sending  off  ... 

"I  can't  but  feel  that  Finister  was  unwise  in  humoring 
her.  He  assured  me,  however,  that  she  was  so  over- 
wrought, nervously,  that  he  dared  not  cross  her." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Vrooman  gravely,  "the  seventeenth 
.  .  .  ah,  yes." 

"We  are  all  delighted  that  so  old  a  family  friend  should 
happen  to  arrive  so  opportunely ;  Mrs.  Card  showed  much 
interest  in  your  cable  message.  Mrs.  Schermer's  re- 
turning to  America  when  she  did,  took  away,  you  see,  her 
only  relative  but  Miss  Stuyvers,  and  Miss  Stuyvers,  un- 
fortunately, seems,  just  now,  to  irritate  her.  The  nurse 
tells  me  that  the  rise  in  temperature  after  her  visits  can 
hardly  be  considered  accidental.  These  little  irrational 
whims  of  nervous  invalids,  Sister  Eustace  assures  me,  are 
the  merest  commonplace  .  .  ." 

"Quite  so,"  said  James  Vrooman  again. 

"You  have  known  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Card  for  some 
time — before  their  marriage,  I  think?"  Francis  went  on, 
slowly,  picking  his  words. 

"I  have  been  so  fortunate  .  .  .  yes." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  the  priest  quietly. 

Now  they  were  opposite  Buckingham  Palace. 

"And  am  I  to  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Des- 
sars?  It  has  been  quite  three  years,  I  am  afraid, 
since " 

"My  sister  is  at  Biarritz  with  my  mother,"  said  Francis 
briefly.  "I  doubt  if  London  sees  them  for  some  time: 
my  mother's  health  is  uncertain." 

"There  is  no  doubt  as  to  who  is  Pope  in  that  family," 
thought  the  lawyer. 

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Evelyn  lay  relaxed  in  a  long  chair,  staring  at  the  wall 
of  her  cheerful  sitting-room.  A  potted  azalea,  of  a  dull 
Indian  red,  stood  on  a  little  table  near  her;  its  flowers, 
the  mingled  tints  of  her  silk  robe  of  Chinese  embroidery, 
her  dark,  smooth  hair  framing  her  pale  face,  gave  her 
a  curious,  exotic  air — she  seemed  like  some  languid  lady 
on  a  fan  or  lacquered  jar.  At  the  window,  sewing,  sat  a 
pink-cheeked  nursing  sister,  obviously  of  some  Catholic 
order;  except  for  the  hour  of  her  own  siesta,  Evelyn 
never  allowed  her  to  leave  the  room.  At  either  side 
of  her  long  chair  sat  a  tall,  dark  man  with  blue  eyes: 
Vrooman  gave  one  almost  imperceptible  gasp  as  the 
larger  of  the  two  rose  gravely,  walked  with  a  long,  meas- 
ured stride  to  the  door  where  he  stood,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Mr.  Vrooman !  I  am  glad — so  very  glad !"  His  face 
had  the  firm  bronze  of  a  man  whose  time  is  passed,  much 
of  it,  in  the  open  air.  His  grip  was  the  grip  of  a  wrestler, 
he  had  a  sailor's  eye  and  the  clothes  of  a  Bond  Street 
artist  who  has  found,  for  once,  a  subject  worthy  of 
his  deepest  dream. 

James  Vrooman,  himself  no  crude  despiser  of  sartorial 
prestige,  viewed  with  envy  the  smooth  areas  of  that 
coat  of  seal  brown,  the  fawn-colored  spats  above  the  var- 
nished boots  of  Moggridge's  exquisite  toil,  the  scarf, 
tinted  like  autumn  beech-leaves,  below  the  close,  curling 
beard. 

"I  had  thought  Du  Maurier  invented  it — but  they 
exist  .  .  .  actually!"  he  marveled.  "What  a  man  you 
are!" 

"Mr.  Card,"  he  said  simply.  "I  cannot  tell  you  how 
this  delights  me.  You  understand,  I  am  sure. 

"My  dear  child "  he  dropped  on  one  knee  by  Eve- 

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lyn's  chair  and  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips:  it  was  cold 
as  ice. 

"I — I  seem  to  lie  here,"  she  said,  a  little  querulously, 
as  invalids  do,  "though,  as  you  can  see,  I  am  really  not 
ill  at  all.  You  were  good  to  come — I  knew  you  would. 
It  is  only  .  .  .  that  when  I  begin  to  get  up  ...  it  seems 
not  worth  while  .  .  .  somehow  ...  so  I  lie  here.  Now 
you  have  come,  we  can  plan  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  child,"  he  repeated,  overcome  by  the  sight 
of  her,  so  weak  and  wandering,  "my  dear,  dear  child!" 

A  discreet  knock  at  the  door  called  Mr.  Vrooman  to 
the  telephone:  high  names  were  mentioned.  Not  wholly 
sorry  to  leave  them  for  a  moment,  he  excused  himself, 
while,  at  the  same  moment,  Dessars  remembered  that 
Hugh  would  be  waiting  for  their  daily  walk  with  Card — 
his  one  free  hour.  The  big  fellow's  eyes  were  fixed,  as 
always,  on  his  wife;  her  nervous  susceptibility  to  his 
searching  gaze  was  always  the  signal  for  the  nurse  to 
rise,  smile  deprecatingly,  and  flutter  about  the  door  until 
Francis  in  pity  led  his  charge  away.  She  had  never  been 
alone  in  a  room  with  him  since  her  return  from  Surrey, 
never  said  a  word  to  him  but  in  the  presence  of  others. 
So  far  from  pressing  any  other  state  of  things  had  Card 
been,  so  adroitly  had  Hugh  and  Francis  lent  themselves 
to  the  situation,  that  neither  of  the  three  could  have  been 
certain  if  either  of  the  others  observed  it.  It  was  tacitly 
assumed  that  he  and  she  had  many  hours  not  accounted 
for  by  their  friends  in  which  to  realize  the  great  change 
that  had  restored  them  to  the  common  lot — to  them,  alas, 
confusion. 

Card  stood  by  the  chair. 

"Good-by,  Eve-Marie,"  he  said,  and  then,  wistfully, 
"I  hope  you  are  better?" 

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"Thank  you,  I  am  perfectly  well — only  tired,"  she  an- 
swered. "I  hope  you  will  enjoy  your  walk." 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  silent,  his  hand  moved  slightly 
toward  her.  But  her  eyes  were  closed,  she  was  lying  back 
on  her  silken  pillows. 

"Au  revoir,  Manuel"  he  said  gently  and  the  young 
Portuguese  rose,  held  out  his  hand  and  looked  Card 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Au  revoir,  always,  mon  ami"  he  said,  then,  following 
him  to  the  little  hall  outside  the  door,  he  added,  "but  not 
for  some  time,  I  fear,  now.  I  am  going  to  Lisbon.  I 
shall  try  to  see  you  again  before  I  go,  but  if  my  business 
is  accomplished  to-day,  as  I  hope,  I  cross  the  Channel 
to-night." 

Card  looked  at  him  seriously  and  long.  "Good  luck, 
Manuel,"  he  said  at  last.  "Are  you  going  alone?" 

Manuel  shrugged  his  shoulders  lightly. 

"God  knows,"  he  said,  and  turned  back  to  the  sitting- 
room. 

"Ma  bonne  sceur,"  said  he,  smiling  masterfully  at  the 
little  nurse,  "is  it  not  time  for  your  so-healthful  prome- 
nade? It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  entertain  ma- 
dame  while  you  are  gone!" 

Sister  Eustace  hesitated. 

"Go,  my  sister,"  Evelyn  agreed  quietly,  "M.  d'Acunha 
will  read  to  me  while  I  rest.  Be  so  good  as  to  leave 
word  for  the  American  gentleman  to  join  me  at  tea- 
time." 

They  were  left  alone  and  Manuel  looked  keenly  at 
her  drooping  lids,  her  crossed  hands.  Had  she  noticed 
at  all  what  went  on  around  her  now,  she  would  have 
observed  the  change  in  him;  he  seemed  older,  sterner, 
more  a  man. 

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The  winter  sun  poured  through  the  clear  panes;  the 
azalea  glowed  like  fire ;  the  coal  in  the  little  grate  whistled 
cheerfully.  For  a  moment  they  sat  in  silence,  then  he 
spoke  abruptly. 

"Evelyn,"  he  said,  "look  at  me." 

She  raised  her  eyes  languidly. 

"I  am  going  home,"  said  he. 

"Why?" 

"That's  what  I  came  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  entirely 
cheerful  and  matter-of-fact.  Of  all  the  little  group  about 
her,  Manuel  was  the  only  one  who,  since  that  night  at 
Holm's  Hangar,  had  not  altered  his  tone  in  speaking  to 
her. 

"Now  listen  to  me,"  he  began,  facing  her.  "I  am 
going  to  tell  you  things  no  Englishman  would  know  how 
to  tell  you  and  no  American  would  dare  to.  And  you 
are  probably  going  to  cry." 

A  faint  smile  appeared  on  her  lips. 

"You  are  always  amusing,  Manuel,"  she  said. 

"The  good  sister  and  your  English  padre  and  senti- 
mental old  Hugh  would  wring  my  neck  for  this,"  he  went 
on,  smiling  maliciously,  "but  none  of  them  knows  you 
as  I  do,  Evelyn,  and  I  know  that  the  truth  won't  hurt  you 
at  all." 

"You  know  me?    You?"  she  repeated. 

"Better,  I  think,  than  you  know  yourself,"  said  he, 
"because  I  love  you,  my  dear.  And  then  ...  I  have 
known  women,  before." 

"Because  you  loved  them,  I  suppose?" 

"Because  I  loved  them — c'est  ga,"  he  answered  gravely. 
"I  am  Latin,  my  dear,  and  practical.  The  man  who  loves 
but  once  is  as  little  informed  as  he  is  rare.  There  is 
a  man  who  has  loved  but  once,  and  loved  you — but  he 

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does  not  understand  you  and  cannot  manage  you.    Not 
as  yet,  that  is  to  say. 

"Now,  as  to  me.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  love  a 
woman  who  does  not  love  me — that  is  a  matter  of  time : 
I  change  the  woman  or  I  change  myself.  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  love  a  woman  whose  husband  loves  her — that 
is  regrettable,  but  cannot  always  be  avoided.  But  I  re- 
fuse absolutely  to  love  a  woman  who  loves  her  hus- 
band, for  that  is  imbecile." 

Evelyn  sat  up  and  fixed  him  with  a  look  so  terrified 
that  he  put  out  his  hand  to  help  her. 

"Are  you  raving  mad?"  she  whispered  (for  her  voice 
came  in  a  whisper).  "Is  this  some  system  you  have 
planned — some  foolish  idea  to  shock  me?" 

Her  hands  trembled  on  the  chair. 

"You  are  not  very  wise,  Manuel,"  she  said. 

"I  am  wiser  than  you,  my  little  heart,"  said  he  sadly. 
"Remember,  I  saw  your  face  that  night.  You  watched 
him,  but  I  watched  you.  Why  did  you  not  go  back  to 
Dessars'  ?" 

"Why?    Because  it  was  more — was  more " 

"Because  you  would  not  sleep  in  her  bed,"  he  said. 
"Because  you  would  not  use  the  rooms  she  used.  Because 
you  would  not  accept  anything  from  any  member  of  her 
family,  even.  Because  you  were  sick  with  jealousy,  my 
little  heart." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept,  and  her 
sobs  loosened  the  band  of  pain  that  bound  her  heart. 

"It's  not  true!  It's  not  true!"  she  moaned,  but  he 
shook  his  head. 

"I  suspected  it  before — that  night  I  knew,"  he  said. 
"It  all  came  to  me  in  a  flash. 

'  'Fool/  said  I,  'triple  fool !     It  was  he  she  saw  in 
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you !  When  you  kissed  her,  it  was  not  you  she  gave  her 
lips  to,  when  she  danced,  it  was  not  you  she  dreamed 
of !  A  beard,  a  laugh,  a  pair  of  blue  eyes !' ': 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"We  are  alike,  we  two,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "I  would 
wager  my  soul  he  has  Portuguese  blood  in  him.  Now 
that  he  walks,  I  think  constantly  of  my  uncle  ...  he 
swung  his  shoulders  so." 

She  hardly  heard  him.  Like  a  miner,  underground, 
who  winds  out  of  tortuous,  choking  passages  into  a  blind- 
ing glare  that  sears  his  eyeballs,  she  stood,  hiding  her 
face  from  the  day,  naked  to  the  relentless  sun. 

Was  that  it?  Was  it  love,  indeed,  that  ached  and 
tore  at  her  so  ?  Love,  and  that  look  on  his  face? 

"When  I  go  home,"  Manuel  was  saying,  "I  shall  find 
out  from  my  mother  what  is  known  of  that  old  pirate 
of  ours :  I  was  a  fool  not  to  have  thought  of  that  .  .  . 
who  can  hide  blood?" 

Suddenly  he  sat  beside  her  on  the  long  chair. 

"Be  a  little  kinder  to  the  good  Georgie,  my  dear,  for 
I  think  I  shall  marry  her,"  he  said. 

"Manuel,  don't  make  me  believe  you "  she  stam- 
mered, but  he  checked  her. 

"Believe  me — what  ?"  he  asked.  "I  must  marry  a  belle 
Americaine,  it  seems,  and  she  is  most  like  you.  She  is 
strong  and  handsome  and  she  will  give  me  children  to 
love  and  we  shall  grow  old  together.  I  like  her  more 
than  any  girl  I  ever  knew.  One  does  not  pine  away 
and  die,  dear  one,  wanting  the  moon,  except  in  the  books. 
You  I  can  never  have — could  never  have  had.  Very  well 
— good  luck  to  the  lucky  man,  then !  What  would  you 
have  me  do?" 

"But  Georsfie — I  am  responsible " 

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"You  need  have  no  fear  for  the  good  Georgie,"  he 
said.  "When  she  has  given  me  children,  I  shall  love  her 
more  than  I  love  you.  I  am  going  to  see  my  mother  and 
then  I  will  cross  your  'big  pond'  and  meet  the  famous 
Cousin  Jane  of  whom  your  Mrs.  Nelly  spoke  so  much 
to  me." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  between  his  own. 

"Georgie  shall  be  happy,  my  dear,  I  promise  you,"  he 
said,  "and  perhaps  our  son  may  have  your  eyes.  Now 
will  you  kiss  my  cheek  and  say,  'Good-by,  Manuel,  thank 
you  for  showing  me  my  heart'?" 

She  leaned  forward,  and  laid  her  hot  cheek  for  a 
moment  against  his. 

"Good-by,  Manuel,"  she  said,  very  low,  "good-by — but 
do  not  ask  me  to  thank  you!" 


XXIV 

TO  James  Vrooman,  newspaper  in  hand,  pacing  his 
comfortable  sitting-room,  which  his  treasure  of  a 
manservant  always  contrived  to  arrange  so  that  it 
resembled  marvelously  his  study  in  the  rooms  on  Gra- 
mercy  Park,  came  Moggridge,  the  ablest  varnisher  of 
boots  in  all  London,  bearing  a  message  from  his  master. 
Would  it  be  convenient  for  Mr.  Vrooman  to  receive  Mr. 
Card  ?  Mr.  Vrooman  would  be  only  too  happy.  He  laid 
the  newspaper  on  a  table  with  others,  glanced  at  its 
upper  left-hand  column,  drew  his  silk  handkerchief  re- 
flectively through  his  fingers  (and  by  that  gesture  one 
who  knew  him  would  have  recognized  him  as  clearing 
the  decks  for  action)  and  waited. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  five  minutes  the  coat  of 
seal  brown,  the  fawn-colored  spats,  the  beech-leaf  scarf 
claimed  once  more  his  honest  admiration. 

"He  is  the  finest  figure  of  a  man  that  ever  I  saw," 
thought  James  Vrooman,  noting  with  a  little  thrill  of 
expectation  the  folded  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  have  come?"  Card  asked  imme- 
diately, without  preface  of  any  sort.  He  was  never,  in 
the  common  sense,  abrupt ;  men  never  found  his  lack  of 
perfunctory  introduction  discourteous. 

"Naturally,  I  have  an  idea,  Mr.  Card,"  answered 
Vrooman  glancing  at  the  paper  in  his  guest's  strong 
hand. 

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"Shall  we  sit  down:  and  what  can  I  offer  yon — 
whisky-and-soda,  or,  perhaps,  tea  ?" 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  drink — I've  never,"  with  a  grave 
smile,  "learned  to  like  alcohol." 

"I,  myself,"  said  the  equable  James,  "take  nothing 
until  dinner.  Never,  certainly,  when  I  have  a  business 
discussion  before  me,  and  I  take  it  we  are  to  talk  busi- 
ness ?" 

"That  is  why  I  came,"  said  Card  simply. 

"Then  I'll  ring  for  some  tea,"  and  Vrooman  pressed 
the  bell,  "and  you  must  let  me  tell  you  first  how  amazed, 
how  delighted  I  am  at  seeing  you  so  recovered!  Such 
a  possibility  was  very  far  from  my  thoughts,  Mr.  Card, 
when  we  first  met." 

And  so  perfect  was  his  guest's  poise,  so  unaffectedly 
unconscious  he  was  of  all  that  might  have  been  implied 
in  that  "when  we  first  met,"  so  clearly  was  his  mind 
empty  of  any  embarrassment,  any  thought  but  the  im- 
mediate business  that  had  brought  him,  that  Vrooman 
(to  his  own  amazement,  later)  realized  that  he  had  ac- 
cepted the  man  as  simply,  as  naturally  as  he  offered  him- 
self— as  one  of  his  own  world,  a  client  like  any  other 
of  his  traveled  countrymen  of  wealth  and  standing.  That 
patient  pupil  in  a  wheel-chair,  of  the  lawyer's  prophetic 
vision,  a  competent  and  practical  young  Diana  for  his 
earthly"* Providence — where  were  they?  Surely,  as  far 
from  the  present  facts  as  that  gaunt  man  in  his  ill-fitting 
flannel  shirt  from  this  model  for  a  crack  Guardsman  now 
before  him. 

"You  feel  perfectly  well  ?  Walking  is  as  easy  for  yon 
as  it  looks?" 

"Thanks.  I'm  as  fit  as  possible,"  he  answered  ab- 
sently, and  then :  "Mr.  Vrooman,  there's  no  doubt  as  to 

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the  truth  of  this?"  and  he  handed  his  newspaper  to  the 
lawyer. 

Vrooman  tore  his  thoughts  resolutely  from  the  pale, 
shaken  creature  in  the  flowered  Chinese  robe — the  whirli- 
gig of  fife! 

"No  doubt  whatsoever,  I'm  afraid,"  he  answered 
gravely.  "There  were  four  guides  with  the  party  and 
their  statements  appear  quite  convincing  to  me.  I  have 
just  come  from  consulting  with  the  family,  and  there  is 
no  question  in  their  opinion  that  both  the  Duke  and  the 
Duchess  were  dead  before  their  bodies  reached  the  lower 
rapids.  The  natives  repeatedly  assured  the  guides  that 
no  bodies  carried  to  that  point  have  ever  been  recovered, 
and  the  signed  statements  of  the  head  guide  and  the 
Duke's  personal  man  were  cabled  to  the  family  before 
this  edition  appeared.  The  Viscount  Haddenstone  and 
his  brother  are  already  in  mourning  and  the  memorial 
service  is  arranged  for.  I  should  say  there  was  no  doubt 
whatsoever." 

Card  held  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Then  .  .  .  this?"  he  said  at  length,  and  pressed  his 
long,  powerful  finger  against  a  paragraph  of  heavy  type. 

Both  the  Duke's  man  and  the  head  guide  testify  explicitly 
to  the  fact  that  the  Duchess  was  wearing,  as  was  invariably 
the  case  with  her,  her  famous  pearl  necklace — the  so-called 
"Gelatly  pearls" — well  known  on  two  continents  by  their 
curious  clasp  of  amethysts.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  one 
of  the  most  perfectly  matched  strings  of  pearls  outside  of 
India  has  been  lost  in  this  sad  tragedy.  It  is  well  known 
that  the  Queen  of  Italy  has  tried  in  vain  to  purchase  them. 

"I  believe  it  to  be  perfectly  true,"  said  Vrooman.  "The 
pearls  are  irretrievably  lost,  in  my  opinion." 

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"Then  the  pearls  that — that  were  left  to  my  father 
by — by  this  lady's  mother  .  .  ." 

"There  is  no  use  beating  about  the  bush,  Mr.  Card," 
Vrooman  answered  frankly.  "Her  Grace  of  Huddling- 
ton  has  worn  a  string  of  artificial  pearls  since  her  mar- 
riage. The  real  ones  were  left  to  your  father,  later,  to 
you." 

"Did  she — this  duchess — did  she  know  this?" 

The  tea  came  in,  and  Vrooman  poured  two  cups  care- 
fully, placing  a  slice  of  lemon  in  his  own  and  a  generous 
amount  of  cream  in  his  guest's. 

"I  know  these  English  have  corrupted  you,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "You  ask  me  if  the  late  Duchess  knew  this, 
Mr.  Card:  I  have  some  reason  to  believe  that  she 
did." 

"And  she  made  no  complaint?" 

"She  made  no  complaint." 

"How  do  you  explain  this,  Mr.  Vrooman?" 

James  Vrooman  sipped  his  tea  delicately. 

"I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  reason  why  I  should 
seek  to  explain  it,"  he  said.  "It  does  not  enter  into  my 
duty  to  explain  it,  even  if  I  could.  Neither  the  late 
Duchess  nor  her  mother  ever  discussed  the  matter  with 
me,  nor  did  your  father,  the  only  and  the  undisputed  heir 
to  the  property." 

"My  wife " 

"Mrs.  Card,  I  am  sure,  from  one  of  her  letters  to  me, 
is  convinced  that  there  was  a  mistake,  and  that  the  late 
Duchess  believed  herself  in  possession  of  the  original 
necklace,"  said  Vrooman  quickly. 

"But  you  think  this  impossible?" 

"I  did  not  say  so.  My  reason  for  believing  it  unlikely 
is  this.  I  have  been  reading  a  copy  of  the  late  Duchess's 

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will,  and  there  is  no  mention  in  it,  whatever,  of  the 
necklace." 

He  paused  a  moment,  balancing  his  cup. 

"I  am  bound  to  say,  however,"  he  continued,  "that  I 
myself  once  drew  a  will  for  a  woman  who  omitted  any 
mention  of  her  principal  piece  of  jewelry,  a  magnificent 
diamond  tiara.  She  explained  this  afterward  by  saying 
that  she  supposed  everyone  realized  it  was  to  go  to  her 
son! 

"One  of  my  partners,"  he  added  reflectively,  "left  out 
of  his  will  altogether  his  most  valuable  real  estate  hold- 
ing in  New  York — a  block  of  buildings,  the  income  of 
which  had  gone  for  so  many  years  to  his  wife,  as  her 
allowance,  that  he  had  honestly  forgotten  all  about  it,  as 
she  managed  it  entirely.  It  made  a  lot  of  trouble  for 
us." 

"What  would  have  happened  if  this — this  Duchess  had 
died  quietly,  here  in  London,"  Card  asked,  "supposing 
that  those  pearls  were  artificial?" 

"There,  of  course,"  said  the  lawyer,  "lies  the  most  im- 
portant point  at  issue.  I  have  no  information,  naturally, 
upon  the  subject,  but  I  have  a  suspicion,  Mr.  Card,  that 
those  pearls  would  have  been  lost,  sooner  or  later,  if 
not  in  a  South  American  river,  then  over  the  rail  of 
an  ocean  liner.  I  fancy  the  clasp  would  have  been 
weak." 

He  lit  one  of  his  immense  Russian  cigarettes  and  of- 
fered one  to  his  guest. 

"The  necklace  was  heavily  insured  while  Mrs.  Gelatly 
owned  it,"  he  remarked,  "but  I  can  find  no  record  of  its 
insurance  by  or  for  the  late  Duchess." 

The  men  faced  each  other. 

"Now,  Mr.  Card,"  said  the  lawyer,  "you  know  all  that 
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I  know  about  the  Gelatly  pearls.  Can  I  do  anything 
more  for  you?" 

"You  can  tell  me,  Mr.  Vrooman,"  said  Card,  the  un- 
lighted  cigarette  firm  between  his  fingers,  "why  this  lady, 
whose  name  was  Teixera,  leaves  to  a  man  like  my  father 
woodlands  and  cabins?" 

"If  you  will  allow  the  correction,  the  property  was 
deeded  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gelatly:  considering  that  his 
health  was  established  there  and  that  he  was  cured  of  a 
probably  fatal  alcoholism,  it  does  not  seem  a  gift  out  of 
proportion  to  his  enormous  wealth." 

"Very  well,  I  accept  that.  But  why  did — did  she  leave 
him  her  pearls?" 

"You  have  not  heard,  perhaps,  how  your  father  saved 
her  life  from  one  of  her  husband's  fits  of  violence?" 
said  Vrooman  slowly.  "It  was  no  secret  at  the  time,  and 
they  were  absolutely  her  own — her  father's  wedding  gift 
to  her." 

Card  made  no  answer. 

"It  has  been  said,"  the  lawyer  suggested  quietly,  "that 
all  that  a  man  hath  he  will  give  for  his  life  .  .  ." 

"Very  well,"  said  Card  again.  "But  why  did  she  leave 
him  her  ring — a  family  ring,  with  a  family  crest?" 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Vrooman.  Card  lit  his 
huge  cigarette  slowly. 

"I  do  not  think  I  shall  keep  that  money,"  he  said.  "I 
have  thought  of  it  much,  very  much,  Mr.  Vrooman. 
There  is  no  one  to  whom  I  can  speak  of  it  but  you.  No 
doubt  you  can  attend  to  it  for  me?  I  have  questioned 
as  to  whether  I  had  any  right  to — to  refuse  it,  because  of 
my  wife :  you  know  on  what  terms  she  married  me.  But 
since  I  read  this — since  I  know  that  I  owe  this  to — to  a 
Teixera — God!"  he  cried,  his  face  suddenly  scarlet,  his 

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eyes  blue  flames.     "Cannot  I  earn  my  bread  as  well  as 
another  man?" 

The  arm  of  the  slender  Chippendale  chair  he  grasped 
cracked  and  split  from  the  body ;  Vrooman  drew  a  quick 
breath. 

"What  a  temper!"  he  marveled,  and  then:  "So  he's 
jealous  of  the  young  one,  is  he?  Great  heavens,  what  a 
fool  that  young  woman  is!" 

"My  dear  Card,"  he  began,  "my  dear  fellow,  believe 
me,  I  understand  your  feeling.  Anything  you  wish  can 
be  done — anything.  But,  in  my  opinion,  you  will  be 
rery  unwise  in  refusing  this  legacy.  It  was  not  left  to 
you,  remember,  but  to  your  father.  What  he  accepted, 
is  it  for  you  to  refuse?" 

"It's  not  that,"  the  other  murmured,  "it's  not  that  .  .  ." 

"Then  again,"  the  lawyer  went  on,  "if  you  repudiate 
this,  to  whom  am  I  to  convey  it?  The  Duchess  of  Hud- 
dlington  was  most  generously  dowered:  on  her  father's 
death  she  received  two  million  more ;  on  her  mother's  she 
made  her  husband  the  third  richest  peer  in  the  United 
Kingdom.  Viscount  Haddenstone  is  one  of  the  eligibles 
of  Europe ;  his  brother  is  unique  among  younger  sons, 
with  a  fortune  in  his  own  right.  Their  grandmother 
loved  them  and  planned  their  future  with  interest;  be- 
lieve me,  my  dear  fellow,  she  would  not  thank  you  for 
this — nor  would  her  son-in-law  have  thanked  you — nor 
will  his  children,"  he  added,  with  meaning. 

The  troubled  giant  stared  at  him,  with  heaving  chest. 
For  a  flash  of  time  Vrooman  saw  those  eyes  glowing 
under  the  tumbled  hair  above  the  clumsy  beard  of  that 
man  who  had  held  a  blackened  pipe  of  cheap  tobacco  in 
the  same  well-tended  fingers  where  now  the  gold-tipped 
cigarette  trembled  with  his  pulse-beats. 

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"Remember,"  he  said  gently,  "that  if  I  am  to  convey 
this  large  sum  to  the  Huddlington  estate,  I  must  account 
for  it :  from  whom  is  it  to  come — and  why,  Mr.  Card  ?" 

The  man  groaned  and,  resting  his  elbow  on  his  knee, 
he  hid  his  face  in  his  hand. 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  Mr.  Card,"  said  Vroo- 
man  with  deliberate  emphasis,  "that  I  see  no  reason  in 
law,  equity,  common  sense  or — or  the  fitness  of  things, 
to  prevent  the  owner  of  those  pearls  from  leaving  them 
where  she  liked.  And  now  you  will  do  as  you  think 
best,  and  I  must  go  and  take  my  second  cup  of  tea  with 
your  wife." 

They  rose. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Vrooman,  "take  the  advice  of 
a  man  much  older  than  yourself,  and  do  not  dwell  on 
things  that  cannot  be  helped.  Remember  you  have  good 
friends  who  love  and  respect  you  deeply,  and  one  of  the 
most  charming  wives  in  the  world." 

Card  grasped  his  hand  till  the  lawyer  bit  his  lip. 

"I — I  understand,"  he  said  very  low,  "and  I  am  very 
grateful  to  you.  I  will  think  about  all  you  have  said." 

They  moved  to  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  together. 

"I  have,  indeed,  good  friends,"  he  said.  "I  know  I'm 
not — I  don't  deserve  such  friends.  But  I  think  you  must 
know,  Mr.  Vrooman,  that  I  have  no  wife — really — and 
shall  never  have." 


XXV 

EVELYN'S  maid,  hastening  from  her  tea  at  her 
mistress's  ring,  was  surprised  to  find  her  sitting  at 
her  desk. 

"Why,  ma'am!"  she  gasped.  "Does  the  Sister 
know " 

"Sister  Eustace  is  out,"  said  Evelyn  shortly.  "Take 
this  note,  please,  to  Miss  Stuyvers'  room,  and " 

"Miss  Stuyvers  is  out  walking  with  Mr.  d'Acunha, 
madame,  and  I  was  to  lay  out  her  things  just  before 
dinner." 

Evelyn  stretched  the  note  out  impatiently. 

"Lay  it  on  her  dressing-table,  then,  and  start  a  cold 
bath  for  me  before  you  go.  And  find  my  dark  red  walk- 
ing-suit." 

"A  cold  bath,  ma'am?  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Card,  but 
oughtn't  I  to  ask " 

"Ask  anyone  you  like,  Pettit,  but  do  as  I  say,  please. 
The  doctor  advised  me  to  go  out  of  doors,  long  ago. 
And  don't  stare  at  me,  Pettit,  it's  tiresome." 

The  woman  looked  gloomy,  but  obeyed,  and  Evelyn, 
tingling  from  the  cold  water,  dressed  herself  more 
quickly  than  the  frightened  maid  could  assist  her.  Her 
hair,  for  weeks  piled  softly  on  top  of  her  head,  fell 
under  Pettit's  fingers  into  its  low,  classic  lines;  her 
trim  short  skirt  swung  to  her  ankles ;  sponged  free- 
ly with  the  cold  water,  sprayed  with  tonic  lavender, 

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her  swollen  eyes  looked  only  softened  and  a  little 
childish;  the  violet  shadows  under  them  and  the  spot 
of  red  in  either  pale  cheek  alone  gave  signs  of  any 
weakness. 

When  Vrooman  stepped  into  the  room,  instinctively 
lowering  his  voice,  as  we  do  on  approaching  an  invalid's 
side,  she  was  winding  her  stole  of  black  lynx  about  her 
throat;  her  little  cap  of  the  same  rich  fur,  with  a  single 
velvet  dahlia,  deep  wine-colored,  for  its  only  ornament, 
gave  her  a  quaintly  girlish  look. 

"I  want  to  go  out  for  a  walk,  James  Vrooman,"  she 
said,  smiling  like  a  child  bent  on  a  prank.  "Will  you 
take  me?" 

"But  .  .  ."  he  stammered,  "my  dear  lady!" 

"I  am  really  well,"  she  assured  him,  searching  his  face 
a  little  piteously.  "It  was  a  kind  of  mistake — what  is 
it  the  Christian  Scientists  say,  'a  wrong  belief  ?  But  .  .  . 
this  afternoon  ...  I  was  cured !" 

His  face  became  impenetrable. 

Not  unlearned  in  women,  he  remembered  the  young 
man  he  had  left  by  her  chair,  the  romantic  young 
Spaniard  Christine  had  described  with  such  gusto.  Card's 
words  rang  in  his  ears,  "Since  I  know  that  I  owe  this  to 
a  Teixera!" — and  he  put,  as  he  had  so  often  put,  two 
and  two  together:  a  mathematical  exercise  inseparable, 
it  would  seem,  from  the  mental  processes  of  even  the 
wisest  of  us.  If  what  Nelly  Schermer  believed  to  be  true 
of  Georgie  and  this  handsome  young  scamp  was  to  be 
credited  (and  Nelly,  it  must  be  owned,  made  few  mis- 
takes) what  was  she  preparing  for  herself,  this  flushed, 
unhappy  girl  ?  So,  this  was  why  she  was  estranged  from 
Georgie?  It  all  seemed  clear  to  a  mind  practiced  in  the 
combinations  of  the  human  species. 

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"I  believe  that  I  could  have  made  her  happier  than 
either  of  them,"  he  mused. 

He  took  the  hands  she  offered  and  held  them  warmly : 
they  were  no  longer  cold,  he  noted. 

"I  should  like  a  walk  beyond  all  things,"  he  assured 
her.  "I've  been  cribbed,  cabined  and  confined  all  day. 
It's  beautiful  weather — you  know,  I've  always  thought 
the  English  climate  much  maligned." 

"We'll  get  our  tea  somewhere,"  she  cried,  excited  by 
the  fresh  cold  on  her  cheeks,  drawing  it  into  her  lungs 
gratefully.  "Oh,  but  it's  good  to  be  out  of  doors  again !" 

He  wondered,  but  held  his  peace,  knowing  well  that 
women  tell  when  they  are  not  asked. 

"And  yet,  she  looked  like  wax,  lying  back  on  that 
chair,"  he  thought,  "and  her  walk  is  short  and  weak, 
though  she  doesn't  know  it." 

"You're  so  comfortable,  James  Vrooman,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "You  don't  nag  and  scold  and  try  to  frighten 
me  for  coming  out  like  this !" 

"Why  should  I?"  he  asked.  "You  would  have  come 
anyway — and  there  are  such  things  as  hansom  cabs !" 

She  smiled  at  him  contentedly. 

There  was  no  snow ;  the  kindly  English  winter  only 
tinted  the  sky  a  thought  more  deeply,  made  fur  a  com- 
fort, promised  crocuses  before  too  long. 

"Did  you  ever,"  she  began  suddenly,  "discover  some- 
thing about  yourself  that  nearly  drove  you  mad,  until 
you  realized  that  it  was  not  a  misfortune,  but  perhaps 
a — a  blessing?" 

There  was  no  longer  the  slightest  doubt  in  his  mind. 
Like  most  of  her  sex,  she  preferred  to  make  blind  con- 
fidences, to  play  with  the  truth  as  a  kitten  pats  away  and 
pulls  back  a  ball  of  worsted.  His  only  thought,  poor 

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man,  was  to  stand  her  good  friend,  to  be  really  worthy 
of  the  trust  she  was  placing  with  him ;  and  had  she  spoken 
directly,  as  she  had  always  done  in  the  days  when  he 
first  knew  her,  this  would  have  been  possible.  But  every 
word  of  hers  he  read  through  colored  glasses ;  each  of  his 
weighed  answers  had  for  her  an  utterly  different  mean- 
ing from  his  own. 

"That  handsome  young  fellow  has  put  his  cards  on  the 
table  before  he  leaves/'  thought  he,  "and  it's  all  over  with 
her,  poor  child.  She  was  strong  enough,  probably,  till 
this  amazing  recovery  of  Card's,  but  that's  been  the 
straw  too  much  .  .  .  perhaps  she's  afraid  of  him — good 
heavens,  how  could  she  think  a  man  of  his  caliber  would 
.  .  .  O  poor  child !" 

Aloud  he  said, 

"Why,  no,  I  can't  say  I  ever  had  any  such  experience. 
But  I'm  a  practical  sort  of  fellow,  you  see,  and  these 
extremes  of  feeling  ..."  he  paused  a  moment. 

"I  have  seen  them  fade,  my  dear,  so  often,"  he  said. 

She  glanced  doubtfully  at  him,  there  had  been  too 
much  meaning  in  his  tone  to  let  it  pass. 

"But  when  they  are  real,  the  feelings?" 

"When  you  have  been  in  my  business  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  dear  Mrs.  Card,"  said  he,  "you  will  begin  to 
doubt  the  reality  of  feelings." 

There  spread  out  from  him  a  grave  atmosphere  of 
dissent ;  sensitive,  as  never  before  in  her  life,  she  thrilled 
to  it  forebodingly. 

"One  may  have  been  blind  for  a  long  time  and  then 
see,  surely?"  she  began  timidly.  "Is  it  too  much  to  ex- 
pect .  .  ." 

"You  are  still  young,"  he  said.  "You  are  still  able  to 
believe  that  there  are  any  justifiable  expectations,  child." 

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"You — you  don't  see  what  I  mean,"  she  said  nervously, 
"or  you  wouldn't  use  this  tone,  I'm  sure.  I've  been  like 
a  person  asleep,  Mr.  Vrooman,  asleep,  and  having  bad 
dreams — but  now  I've  waked  up." 

"It's  always  'waking  up'  for  them,"  he  mused,  "always 
the  same!  No  wonder  they  feel  it  justifies  everything, 
excuses  everything  .  .  ." 

"And  now  you've  waked  up,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully. 
"Well,  and  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  now  you  are 
awake  ?" 

She  took  her  courage  in  her  hands  and  as  she  conceived 
it,  told  him  a  plain  tale. 

"When  I — when  I  made  the  bargain  that  was  called  my 
marriage,"  she  began,  and  paused. 

"Exactly,"  he  agreed,  with  gravity,  "the  bargain  that 
was  called  your  marriage.  It  was,  of  course,  not  a  mar- 
riage, but  it  was,  equally,  of  course,  a  bargain.  In  re- 
membering the  one  fact,  never  forget  the  other,  my 
dear." 

Her  steps  began  to  lag.  She  was  excessively  fatigued, 
the  sudden  stimulus  that  had  sent  her  up  and  out  of  doors 
had  died  down.  She  felt,  he  made  her  feel,  as  if  she 
were  playing  a  game  of  chess  against  a  watchful  ad- 
versary. 

"Can  we  have  some  tea  ?"  she  said  abruptly. 

"My  dear,  forgive  me!"  he  cried.  "Here,  here  is  a 
quiet  little  corner,  why  not  turn  in  here?" 

In  a  quaint,  low-ceiled  room,  called  "Ye  Traveler's 
Reste,"  they  found  an  oaken  table  in  a  corner,  and  a 
wholesome  girl  in  a  laced  bodice  and  starched  Dutch 
cap  brought  them  the  best  of  tea  in  a  squat  Delft  service. 
From  that  day  of  her  life  Evelyn  never  lost  her  loathing 
for  the  blue  and  white  ware,  the  windmills  and  f  ull-trous- 

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ered  children  that  alternated  on  the  frieze  below  the 
ceiling. 

She  drank  the  hot  tea  eagerly,  then  took  up  her  tale : 
the  few  couples  scattered  about  the  quiet  room,  the  mov- 
ing figures  on  the  pavement,  the  rumble  of  the  streets 
were  to  her  as  if  they  did  not  exist. 

"I  meant  to  be  perfectly  fair,"  she  said  dreamily.  "I 
thought  I  didn't  care — never  would  care,  probably,  for 
— for  .  .  ."  she  plunged  into  the  sweet  abasement,  "for 
what  I  see  now  we  cannot  live  without,"  she  finished 
bravely. 

"Poor  child !"  he  thought,  admiring  for  the  hundredth 
time  her  courage  and  her  frankness. 

"I  did  not  see  what  use  my  life  was  going  to  be," 
she  went  on,  "tied  to  one  of  the  family  after  another, 
doing  only  what  any  other  paid  companion  could  do  as 
well.  Cousin  Sue  never  liked  me  particularly;  I  didn't 
believe  that  Cousin  Georgianna  ever  would — though,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,"  she  broke  in,  with  a  faint  smile,  "we're 
rather  good  friends  now,  queerly  enough.  And  I  thought 
that  what  I  could  give  was  fairly  offered  for  what  I 
would  get :  independence,  travel,  the  comforts  I  had  been 
brought  up  to  expect :  more  than  that — never  to  do  with- 
out. I  didn't  see,  then,"  she  murmured,  "that  it  is  all 
the  same,  those  things.  When  you  don't  have  them — 
clothes,  pleasant  rooms,  freedom  to  do  as  you  like,  you 
think  they  make  happiness.  As  soon  as  you  get  them,  and 
grow  accustomed  to  them,  you  see  that  they  are  only  .  .  . 
I  mean,  you  are  just  where  you  were  before  .  .  .  they 
don't  matter,  that's  all.  They  are  not  what  you  live  for 
— they  don't  fill  you  .  .  .  they  are  only  things !" 

He  smiled  very  sadly. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  "what  you  have  just  told  me  is 


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probably  the  greatest  lesson  life  has  to  teach  strong 
natures.  There  are  three  classes  she  teaches  us  in:  the 
first  is  rather  small — I  hope  you  won't  think  me  fatuous 
if  I  suggest  that  I  won  my  diploma  there — it  is  the  phi- 
losopher's class.  The  second  is  much  larger — I  needn't 
tell  you  that  your  husband  has  long  been  a  favored 
pupil  in  that  division :  it  is  for  the  religious,  of  all  creeds 
and  countries.  The  third  is  the  largest  of  all — to  ma- 
triculate there  you  have  only  to  do  what  is  known  as 
falling  in  love." 

She  drew  a  long  breath  and  met  his  eyes. 

"I  am  neither  a  philosopher — nor  religious,"  she  said 
quietly. 

He  sipped  his  tea,  watching  her,  lost  in  her  dream. 

"Mrs.  Card — Evelyn,"  he  began  abruptly,  "you  sent 
for  me,  and  I  came  to  you,  as  you  knew  that  I  would. 
I  had  no  idea  why  you  sent,  though  a  certain  knowledge 
of  life  warned  me,  in  a  general  way,  as  to  what  I  might 
expect.  I  arrived  in  London,  I  heard  of  your  husband's 
recovery,  of  your  prostration  directly  following  it.  I 
have  seen  the — the  friends  who  are  about  you.  I  have 
talked  with  your  husband,  and  I  see,  I  think,  how  things 
are  with  him.  You  tell  me,  plainly  enough,  heaven 
knows,  how  things  are  with  you.  It  is,  of  course,  a 
hopeless  deadlock.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

She  stared  at  him  confused. 

"Hopeless  ?"  she  queried.    "A  deadlock  ?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  cried  impatiently  (and  it  must  be 
remembered  that  he  was  only  human,  James  Vrooman; 
that  he  spoke  to  the  one  woman  who  had  ever  caught 
his  head  and  his  heart  together ;  that  had  the  death  which 
had  released  him  six  months  ago  occurred  a  year  sooner, 
he  might  have  won  her  for  his  own)  "you  are  a  woman 

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of  the  world — you  are  not  a  schoolgirl,  fed  on  poetry! 
What  do  you  look  for?  What  can  be  the  end  of  this? 
You  should  have  thought  of  these  things  sooner  .  .  . 
why  did  you  let  it  go  on,  knowing  what  you  must  have 
known?  These  feelings  can  be " 

"I  only  knew  to-day,"  she  said,  and  dreamed. 

"Your — your  feeling  is  returned?"  he  asked  dryly,  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  have  never  thought  so 
.  .  .  in — in  that  way  .  .  .  till  something  a  friend  said 
to  me." 

And  then  fate,  who  delights  to  play  with  us,  sent 
straight  in  the  path  of  Vrooman's  troubled  eyes,  Georgie 
Stuyvers  and  Manuel,  swinging  out  of  Hyde  Park  toward 
home.  The  girl  was  flushed,  ecstatic;  she  walked  on 
air.  Manuel  was  calm,  but  obviously  contented.  Di- 
rectly in  front  of  the  little  tea-room,  which  faced  the 
park  entrance,  they  paused,  evidently  to  separate.  Man- 
uel consulted  his  watch  hastily,  took  both  her  hands  in 
his,  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  then  raised  his  hat  and 
left  her,  hurrying.  She  followed  his  figure  a  moment 
with  happy  eyes,  laughed  unconsciously,  and  went 
on.  The  drama  left  no  doubt.  Nelly  Schermer  was 
right. 

"My  God,  she's  made  a  mistake!"  James  Vrooman 
thought.  "The  young  scamp!  The  silly  Spanish  heart- 
breaker  !  What  an  unholy  mess  life  is  .  .  .  who  can  tell 
what  a  woman  will  dress  up  and  love?  Children  with 
their  dolls!" 

Evelyn  had  never  seemed  so  young  to  him,  so  girlish, 
so  inexperienced.  The  practical,  provident  woman  of 
last  year,  a  little  hard,  perhaps,  but  so  clear-thoughted, 
so  capable — where  was  she? 

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"It  had  better  be  done  quickly,"  he  decided,  and  caught 
and  held  her  eyes. 

"I  have  every  reason  to  fear  that  your  friend  was 
misinformed,"  he  said  deliberately. 

She  stiffened  to  a  strained  attention. 

"You  mean " 

"I  mean  that  you  are  only  making  sorrow  and  hu- 
miliation for  yourself,  Evelyn,"  he  said  rapidly  and  low. 
"I  mean  that  life  is  rather  cruel,  sometimes,  and  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  waking  up  'too  late.' " 

She  searched  his  face  through  narrowed  lids. 

"I  mean  that  you  would  not  find  the  return  for  your 
.  .  .  feeling,  that  you  count  on,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  never  left  his. 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,"  he  went  on  desperately. 
"I  do  not  say  that  there  is  no  ...  no  feeling — I  only 
say  that  it  is  not  of  the  depth  nor  the — the  exclusive 
character  that  would  for  a  moment  justify  such  a  vitally 
important  step  as  you  seem  prepared  to  take." 

"You  mean — that  there  is  someone  else  beside  me?" 

"I  am  afraid  so  ...  I  must  believe  so,"  he  said,  and 
then :  "If  I  have  said  too  much,  if  I  have  rushed  too 
hastily  to  conclusions,  consult  your  own  knowledge — 
what  you  must  have  seen,  this  winter.  Have  you,  your- 
self, never  thought  that  there  might  be  someone  else? 
One  of  whom  not  only  I,  but  others  have  spoken?" 

She  bowed  her  head.  What  a  fool  she  had  been !  Had 
she  alone  had  eyes  that  night  at  Holm's  Hangar,  then? 
They  had  all  seen,  of  course:  no  doubt  they  were  all 
laughing  at  her  ...  the  thought  whipped  a  saving  bitter- 
ness into  her  voice. 

"Then  when  Manuel  said,  "There  is  one  man  who  has 

loved  but  once — and  loved  you' " 

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The  mentioned  name  settled  any  shadow  of  doubt  in 
Vrooman's  mind.  He  had  rather  she  had  not  said  it,  but 
at  least,  now,  he  had  no  mistake  to  lie  heavy  on  his  con- 
science. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  quickly,  to  save  her  any  further 
remembrance,  later,  "I  am  much  older  than  you  and  I 
have  been  obliged  to  know  much  of  what  you  suffer. 
Will  you  try  to  believe  me  when  I  say  that  there  will  come 
a  time  when  you  will  smile  when  you  think  of  Manuel  ?" 

"I  can  smile  now,"  she  said,  and  did. 

"You're  a  brave  woman,  Evelyn,  and  I  love  you  for  it," 
he  told  her.  "Of  course,  you  have  guessed  that  I  always 
have?  Not  that  it  need  make  the  least  difference." 

It  is  doubtful  if  she  heard  him. 

"Of  course,  you  know  that  we  must  separate,  my  hus- 
band and  I?"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"That  was  why  I  supposed  you  sent  for  me,"  said  he. 
"But,  Evelyn,  I  give  you  my  word  I  cannot  see  how  it 
could  be  arranged." 

"He  must  be  free,"  she  said  briefly;  "anything  else  is 
absurd." 

"I  understand,"  he  answered  gently,  "and  what  you 
feel  is  generous  and  like  you.  But  think.  He  is  a  be- 
lieving, practicing  Catholic.  The  only  separation  his  re- 
ligion admits  would  leave  neither  of  you  really  free.  It 
would  only  spare  you  persecutions  that  neither  of  you 
would  be  guilty  of,  for  a  moment.  It  is  not  intended  for 
people  in  your  situation.  Supposing  I  should  do  my  best 
for  you — God  knows  I  am  willing  to — to  whom  would  he 
go  for  advice  ?  Pere  Antoine,  perhaps ;  this  Father  Des- 
sars,  certainly.  I  have  seen  these  converts  before — they 
are  the  most  violently  reactionary  Catholics  in  the  world 


OPEN    MARKET 

— more  Roman  than  the  Romans.  You  know  what  his 
attitude  would  be." 

"But  there  must  be  some  way — it  has  been  done,"  she 
insisted  feverishly. 

"Yes,  it  has,"  he  answered,  "that  is  true.  I  doubt  if 
you  realize  at  what  price.  One  party's  being  Protestant, 
of  course,  makes  a  difference.  I  don't  tell  you  it  is  ab- 
solutely impossible." 

He  gathered  up  his  gloves. 

"We  must  start,  it's  dark,  and  they'd  be  worried  about 
you,"  he  said.  "I'll  get  a  taxicab,  and  we'll  talk  there." 

Sitting  beside  her,  he  took  her  hand. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  in  his  most  practical  tone.  "I'll 
make  a  bargain  with  you.  Wait  a  year,  and  then,  if  you 
still  feel  that  it  must  be,  I'll  try  everything  I  know,  every 
influence  I  possess,  to  get  you  as  definite  a  separation 
as  I  can.  Time  is  an  extraordinary  solvent,  dear  friend. 
What  you  are  feeling  now  must  inevitably  alter,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent :  the  certainties  of  life  have  a  way  of  imposing 
themselves  on  us  ...  let  things  be  as  they  were  when 
you  made  your  bargain  with  your  husband — that  is  all 
he  asks." 

He  could  not  have  foreseen  the  effect  of  these  simple 
words. 

She  turned  upon  him  a  face  so  tortured  with  wounded 
pride  that  he  shrank  from  it. 

"All  he  asks,"  she  cried,  humiliated  beyond  endurance, 
"all  he  asks  ?  You  have  done  your  errand  to  perfection, 
Mr.  Vrooman!  Assure  him  that  he  would  get  no  more 
if  he  were  dying — here — in  the  street!" 

"Now,  what  is  all  this?"  he  wondered. 

"If  I  am  to  protect  his  religious  prejudices  into  the 
bargain,  since  you  infer  I  ought  to  be  glad  to  do  so — 

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very  well.  I  suppose  that  is  one  of  the  things  I  should 
have  thought  of  before.  But  at  least  I  shall  not  be  forced 
to  live  in  the  same  house  with  him — you  don't  insist  on 
that?" 

He  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  account  for  her  fury. 

"You  take  me  up  very  strangely,"  he  said  quietly.  "But 
I  certainly  shouldn't  advise  your  living  in  the  same  house. 
Fortunately,  civilization  no  longer  requires  such  a  literal 
ball-and-chain.  I  see  nothing  to  prevent  his  going  to 
Egypt  with  Mr.  Finister,  as  they  planned,  and  your  re- 
turn to  America,  say,  for  a  visit,  if  you  are  tired  of  your 
English  friends. 

"I  assure  you,  I  would  set  about  a  separation  immedi- 
ately for  you,  if  I  saw  any  hope  of  success.  But,  frankly, 
I  don't.  I  must  sound  Mr.  Card  now  at  leisure  and  try, 
as  we  always  try,  to  settle  matters  as  quietly  and  with  as 
little  enmity  as  possible.  But  you  must  believe  that  my 
offer  is  sincere,  much  as  I  regret  the  occasion  of  it." 

She  turned  to  him  a  face  wet  with  tears. 

"Forgive  me — and  give  me  back  my  bracelet!"  she 
whispered,  and  then,  as  he  put  it  over  her  cold  hand,  she 
added,  "I  will  take  Georgie  home,  if  she  likes — perhaps 
you'll  go  with  us?" 

He  stared  in  blank  amazement. 

"You'll  take  Georgie "  he  mattered,  then  shook  his 

head,  nonplussed. 


XXVI 

AFTER  all,  she  did  not  go  home  with  Georgie.  The 
girl  wept  happily  all  night  in  her  arms,  exacted 
Card's  promise  to  learn  to  dance  for  her  wedding, 
and  was  off  with  the  Ogden  Jays  for  New  York  before 
Evelyn  could  reach  Cousin  Georgianna's  bedside,  at  Men- 
tone,  in  response  to  a  pathetic  telegram.  The  old  dow- 
ager was  breaking  up;  she  had  come  to  the  point  where 
she  must  have  someone  of  her  blood  beside  her,  someone 
who  could  catch  every  implication  of  the  querulous  family 
gossip  that  was  all  she  lived  for,  now.  The  doctors  as- 
sured Evelyn  that  the  frail,  haughty  old  woman  might 
die  any  day  now,  and  grateful  cablegrams  from  America 
left  the  honor  of  the  family  in  their  young  cousin's  hands : 
there  was  literally  no  one  of  them  able  to  come  to  her, 
and  she  had  neither  son  nor  daughter  now. 

Evelyn's  hasty  good-by  to  her  husband  had  been  in 
the  presence  of  Hugh  and  Dessars — both  to  be  his  com- 
panions on  the  Egyptian  tour,  for  Francis  was  drawn 
and  white  from  overwork.  Perceiving  that  both  men 
supposed  she  was  to  follow  them  as  soon  as  possible 
(Hugh,  indeed,  had  definite  plans  for  their  meeting  at 
Gibraltar)  she  said  nothing  to  undeceive  them  and  lis- 
tened to  Hugh's  advice  as  to  her  best  route — they  were 
to  go  by  water,  in  deference  to  Card's  preference  for  it, 
whenever  possible.  Evelyn,  they  supposed,  would  choose 
a  land  route,  for  quickness. 

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Vrooman,  who  had  had  no  holiday  the  last  summer, 
would  escort  her  to  the  old  lady,  and,  in  case  she 
should  not  be  needed,  for  Cousin  Georgianna  was  famous 
for  the  sudden  alarming  of  her  kinspeople,  take  her  as 
far  as  Gibraltar.  But  they  knew,  both  of  them,  that 
he  would  not  be  asked  to  do  this,  and  Gard  knew  it, 
too. 

"You  do  not  wish  to  be  with  me,"  he  had  said  to  her 
quietly  in  the  interview  she  had  found  herself  obliged 
to  give  him.  As  in  those  far-away  days  in  Bermuda, 
there  was  a  point  at  which  he  could  not  be  "managed," 
or  put  off,  and  she  had  stood  awkwardly  by  the  sitting- 
room  window  while  he  stood  near  the  door ;  both  looked 
down. 

"You  have  heard  that  I — I  talked  with  Vrooman?" 
he  asked  her. 

She  bowed  silently. 

In  his  mind  was  the  strange  story  of  the  necklace;  in 
hers  the  settled  conviction  that  he  had  asked  "to  let  things 
be  as  they  were  when  you  made  your  bargain"! 

There  is  small  wonder  that  they  avoided  each  other's 
eyes. 

"I  must  think  about  it,"  he  said,  painfully.  "He  advises 
me  that  it  will  be  best — for  us  all — to  go  on  ...  as  we 
have  gone." 

"Please  do  not  speak  of  it,"  she  said,  humiliated. 

"But  I  must — I  must !"  he  cried.  "When  I  think  what 
I  have  led  you  to.  ...  O,  Eve-Marie,  you  know — you 
must  know — that  when  we  were  married  I  never  knew 
that  I  should  feel  ...  as  I  do  to-day!  That  I  should 
learn  what  I  have  learned,  since  .  .  ." 

She  met  his  eyes  and  he  blushed,  a  hot,  hard  red;  his 
forehead  was  dark  with  it. 

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"Since  that  night,  he  means,"  she  thought.  "We  have 
both  learned  much,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  it  was  not  to 
be  helped.  One  cannot  help  .  .  .  those  things." 

"I  knew  you  would  be  just,"  he  answered  simply. 

"But  you  will  understand  that  I  cannot  come  to  Egypt," 
she  added. 

"I  understand ;  I  will  never  annoy  you,"  said  he,  very 
humbly. 

As  it  turned  out,  they  would  in  no  case  have  seen 
Egypt.  For  Francis,  worn  and  harassed,  fell  into  a  dull 
fever  at  Gibraltar  and  lay  there  for  two  months,  gaining 
slowly,  while  Evelyn  sat  from  week  to  week  by  the  old 
dowager,  who  clung  to  life  till  Death,  it  seemed,  despaired 
of  her. 

She  recognized  her  young  kinswoman  just  enough  for 
purposes  of  family  dependence ;  whether  or  not  she  real- 
ized that  her  devotion  was  purely  voluntary  and  not  the 
due  of  a  poor  companion,  Evelyn  never  quite  knew. 
It  amused  her,  faintly,  to  wait  on  the  old  creature,  to 
read  to  her,  listen  to  her  budget  of  ancient  scandals,  at- 
tend upon  her  in  all  but  the  strictly  menial  tasks  she  al- 
lowed her  much-tried  nurse. 

Vrooman,  endlessly  consulting  with  the  Huddlington 
solicitors,  prolonged  his  stay,  came  to  see  her  as  often 
as  he  could,  and  was  the  sole  enlivener  of  her  self- 
imposed  solitude.  A  great  favorite  with  Cousin  Georgi- 
anna,  he  capped  her  scandals,  corrected  her  family  news, 
promised  to  go  home  with  them  when  she  should  be 
stronger. 

And  so  he  did,  but  not  as  the  Dowager  Jay  had 
planned ;  for,  though  they  took  her  body  back  for  suitable 
interment  in  the  Jay  plot,  her  spirit  had  gone,  some  days 
before,  to  whatever  well-ordered  corner  of  heaven  re- 

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spectful  angels  had  doubtless  long  since  arranged  for 
her  family. 

On  the  voyage,  which  was  in  March  and  very  stormy, 
Evelyn  kept  her  cabin,  for  the  most  part;  when  they 
talked,  it  was  of  indifferent  though  friendly  matters. 

Her  funeral,  on  a  blustering,  chilly  day,  carried  Evelyn 
back,  almost  confusingly,  to  Cousin  Sue's ;  through  their 
overwhelming  thanks  for  her  help  in  all  this  trying  win- 
ter, she  had  a  curious  sense  of  masquerade;  easily  as 
she  took  her  position  above  the  salt,  flattered  by  Nelly 
Schermer,  deferred  to  by  Mrs.  Stuy,  consulted  by 
Cousin  Jane  and  adored  by  Georgie,  she  wondered  whim- 
sically as  she  sat  in  her  large,  formal  bedroom,  when 
she  would  wake  and  be  summoned  downstairs  to  hear 
her  fate? 

And  when  James  Vrooman,  at  the  head  of  the  great 
Bleeckpits  dining-table,  read  with  a  countenance  void  of 
any  expression  that  codicil  of  Cousin  Georgianna's  will 
which  left  to  my  beloved  cousin  Evelyn  Bleeck  Jaffray 
Card  the  entire  residuary  estate  to  the  amount  of  five 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  no  face  in  the  room,  not  even 
Cousin  Jane's,  conscious  of  her  Georgie's  tiny  twenty-five 
thousand,  was  so  blank  with  amazement  as  Evelyn's. 

"But — there  must  be  some  mistake !"  she  gasped,  star- 
ing round  at  them. 

"By  Godfrey,  that's  more'n  she  said  when  Susy  bilked 
her  two  years  ago!"  Vandy  Schermer  chuckled.  "I'm 
darned  glad  of  it,  for  one !  So's  the  missus,  aren't  you, 
Rita?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  replied  Rita  primly.  "We  all  are. 
Why  not?" 

"She's  all  right,  you  know ;  old  Evie's  all  right,"  Vandy 
prattled  on,  "the  real  stuff,  Evie  is.  Always  said  so, 

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m'self.  Always  said  Susy  was  a  damned  old  screw.  She 
always  sat  tight  and  held  her  tongue,  Evie  did,  and  now 
she's  got  the  handsomest  feller  in  London,  they  tell  me, 
and  more  to  the  good,  with  this  nice  little  bit,  than 
Georgie's  dago  duke — what?" 

"Really,  Vanderpelt.  .  .  /'  said  Mrs.  Stuy, 
"really.  .  .  .  !" 

They  moved  Francis  Dessars  slowly  northward,  as 
he  could  bear  it;  his  system  had  been  drained  to  the 
utmost,  and  he  clung  to  his  two  friends  with  a  drowning 
grip. 

Card's  letters  came  at  regular  ten-day  intervals.  He 
spoke  of  Spain,  which  he  liked  greatly;  of  horses — he 
had  learned  to  ride,  and  enjoyed  the  exercise  much;  of 
Dessars'  health,  which  worried  him.  He  had  promised 
Georgie  to  come  to  her  wedding  in  July,  and  Hugh  had 
suggested  that  Card  and  the  invalid  should  cross  the 
ocean  together,  and  spend  the  summer  traveling  in  the 
Rockies :  it  had  been  strongly  recommended.  Georgie 
and  her  lord-to-be  had  long  planned  this,  it  appeared, 
for  their  wedding  journey;  there  were  to  be  pack  mules 
and  sleeping  tents  and  privations  of  the  most  carefully 
planned  variety, 

"Manuel  won't  want  to  be  too  long  alone,"  said  Georgie, 
frankly.  "Why  don't  you  and  Cousin  Ted  come  out  and 
take  care  of  us  all?  I'll  bet  you  my  going-away  dress 
Hugh  Finister  won't  be  able  to  keep  away  very  long: 
Christine  said  that  his  sister  wrote  he  could  do  as  he 
pleased,  very  soon — the  old  Admiral  is  as  proud  as 
Punch  about  him  and  is  going  to  make  him  a  handsome 
allowance  when  the  Commission  breaks  up." 

Manuel  had  passed  the  weeks  of  her  nursing  at  Men- 
tone  with  his  fiancee  and  had  left  America,  just  as  she 

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sailed,  to  return  in  June.  But  in  June  she  did  not  see 
him. 

A  letter  from  Card  had  spoken  of  his  fear  for  Pere 
Antoine's  health ;  a  prolonged  attack  of  grippe  had  weak- 
ened him.  Mel  was  not  there  to  browbeat  him  into  the 
proper  care  of  himself,  and  he  had  not  written  for  weeks. 
Would  Evelyn  ask  Mr.  Vrooman  to  do  what  he  could? 
The  little  priest  had  so  admired  and  trusted  him.  She 
cabled  that  all  should  be  attended  to,  and  took  the  first 
train  for  the  woods. 

Had  she  not  taken  the  precaution  of  bringing  a  doctor 
from  the  Junction,  it  is  doubtful  if  they  could  have  saved 
him.  He  lay  very  weak,  clumsily  served  by  loving,  ig- 
norant hands,  convinced  that  his  work  for  his  poor  people 
was  done. 

It  was  not  till  after  a  week  of  ceaseless  care  and  watch- 
ing that  the  doctor  pronounced  him  out  of  danger,  and 
they  began  to  win  him  back  to  interest  in  the  life  he  had 
so  nearly  quitted. 

Evelyn  scarcely  left  his  side.  To  hold  his  wandering 
mind,  to  check  the  painful  ennui  that  poisoned  the  cur- 
rents of  his  soul,  she  had  discovered  that  it  was  only 
necessary  to  talk  of  Card,  and  of  that  wonderful  pupil, 
friend  and  benefactor  they  spoke  by  day  and  night, 
through  fever,  chill  and  pain.  Card  at  his  baskets,  Card 
at  his  Latin,  Card  learning  to  cook,  to  cipher,  to  read 
the  Lives  of  the  Saints  in  French,  would  always  bring  a 
smile  to  his  face. 

Manuel  had  learned  from  Hugh  of  the  touching  devo- 
tion of  the  big  pupil  for  his  old  tutor,  and  Evelyn's  quick 
response  to  his  need  gained  her  new  laurels. 

"Dear  Evelyn  always  has  such  a  feeling  for  the  right 
thing  to  do,"  said  Cousin  Jane  "The  most  delightful 

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old  abbe  sort  of  person,  dear  Manuel  says,  with  a  great 
parish  so  devoted  to  him,  and  inquiry  made  from  Rome, 
I  hear." 

Somehow,  she  could  not  tell  Card  that  she  had  stayed 
by  the  little  priest — she  could  not  write  of  it  natu- 
rally. Deliberately  she  let  him  understand  that  she 
had  gone  up  there  and  left  a  nurse  in  charge.  But  she 
read  his  letters  herself  to  the  eager  patient,  ar- 
ranged herself  the  flowers  on  his  beloved  altar,  helped 
the  good  Sisters  who  kept  the  school  at  Babley's 
Mills  to  train  his  scrubby  choir,  sat  for  long  hours 
before  the  lovely  cherubs  in  his  precious  memorial 
window. 

It  was  a  strange  time  for  her.  Wrapped  in  the  pro- 
found peace  that  attends  on  whole-souled  work  for  an- 
other, free  from  every  sight  and  sound  and  memory 
of  the  crowded  cities  that  had  seen  her  deepest  unhap- 
piness,  her  distress  and  humiliation  faded,  little  by  little 
and  day  by  day,  from  her  heart.  Among  these  solemn 
trees,  surrounded  by  the  patient  poverty  of  these  country 
villagers,  her  broken  plans  seemed  trivial.  She  began 
to  see  more  clearly :  that  she  had  failed  in  all  she  had  hon- 
estly meant  to  accomplish  was  not  important — she  had 
meant  honestly,  and  that  was  her  excuse;  the  things 
had  been  accomplished,  and  that  was  his  benefit — and 
her  reward.  Though  she  had  neither  formed  his  mind 
nor  developed  his  character,  it  could  not  be  denied  that 
had  it  not  been  for  her  it  was  doubtful  if  it  would  have 
been  done.  Through  her  he  had  met  Hugh,  through 
Hugh,  Dessars.  Through  Dessars — ah,  that  hurt  her 
still!  She  had  not  even  awakened  in  him  that  strange 
and  terrible  force  that  lighted  his  eyes,  parted  his  lips, 
on  the  night  she  could  not  yet  endure  to  remember. 

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To  every  door  of  life  she  had  led  him — but  with  him 
she  had  passed  through  none  of  them! 

Into  July  she  lingered,  strongly  loath  to  leave  this 
sad,  rich  harvest  of  her  days.  What  was  to  come  to 
her  she  did  not  wish  to  think  of :  here,  as  in  no  other 
place,  could  she  dream  on  what  she  had  missed.  The 
people  of  the  scattered  parish  grew  to  love  her ;  and  their 
lives  became  very  real  to  her.  Mornings  she  visited 
them,  afternoons  she  walked  and  dreamed,  evenings  she 
talked  of  Card  to  the  priest. 

On  the  day  she  had  planned  to  start  southward  for 
Georgie's  wedding,  a  long,  excited  telegram,  half  apolo- 
gies, half  threats  aimed  at  the  telegraph  service,  ex- 
plained that  the  ceremony,  advanced  suddenly  by  three 
days,  for  the  sake  of  Manuel's  mother,  had  already  taken 
place!  The  original  message,  informing  her  of  the 
change,  had  been  missent  to  another  state,  reported  de- 
livered, and  they  had  only  that  day  received  it  back  with 
apologetic  explanations.  They  were  overwhelmed  with 
regrets,  had  believed  her  somehow  delayed,  till  the  last 
moment. 

She  sighed  her  relief.  Card  could  not  in  any  case 
have  been  there,  as  his  boat  was  just  calculated  to  meet 
the  first  date,  and  was  now  late  for  that.  She  smiled 
whimsically,  remembering  how  that,  on  some  such  occa- 
sion, she  would  have  looked,  once,  to  show  the  results  of 
her  training  to  a  critical  assemblage.  How  far  behind 
her  all  that  had  dropped!  Now,  it  was  only  the  rest 
of  them  that  were  disappointed  of  him :  he  and  she  were 
equally  indifferent  to  the  occasion  or  their  possible  opin- 
ion. How  strange  it  was!  She  wrote  them  comforting 
letters,  and  stayed  on. 


XXVII 

IT  was  the  second  anniversary  of  her  wedding  day. 
She  knew,  now,  why  she  had  waited,  where  she 
would  go.  This  day  should  give  her  what  she  had 
denied  herself  from  the  moment  she  had  come  to  the 
woods :  neither  sick  nor  poor  nor  Pere  Antoine  could 
claim  this  day. 

"I  am  going  into  the  woods,  father,"  she  told  him. 
"I — I  have  a  wish  to  visit  the  camp.  Can  you  tell  me  how 
to  go  from  here?" 

"Now,  that  is  one  of  those  good  thoughts  of  yours! 
How  often  you  have  them!"  he  cried,  delighted.  "This 
is  the  first  time  that  ever  I  let  a  month  go  by  ...  and 
will  you  sweep  it,"  he  added  masterfully,  "and  see  if  the 
field-mice  have  got  in?  When  he  comes  to  see  me — of 
course  I  know  that  all  the  friends  and  all  of  your  parents 
and — mon  Dieu!  all  those  of  importance  will  naturally 
be  honored  first.  But  when  you  can  spare  him,  my 
daughter,  he  and  I  shall  walk  (Mother  of  God,  to  think 
of  him  walking!)  arm  in  arm  together,  where  we  took 
him  on  the  mule!  You  will  not  forget  the  field-mice — 
poor,  dirty  little  beasts !" 

"Indeed,  you  may  trust  me,"  she  assured  him — it  de- 
lighted her  that  he  had  lost  all  reserve  with  her  long 
ago,  and  corrected  her  gravely,  like  one  of  his  flock, 
choked,  sometimes,  by  a  sudden  embarrassment. 

She  put  sandwiches  in  her  pocket  and  a  worn  little 
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book  of  meditations — the  book,  Pere  Antoine  often  ex- 
plained with  pride,  with  which  Card  had  prepared  for 
his  first  communion.  Its  quaint,  devout  little  sentences 
had  come  to  possess  a  great  fascination  for  her.  Her 
short,  thick  skirt  cleared  her  high  boots,  she  wore  a 
violet  neck  scarf,  and  under  her  low,  open  collar,  about 
her  neck,  for  the  first  time  since  the  Dessars'  ball,  was 
the  amethyst  cross  and  chain.  All  doubtful  memories 
were  purged  away  from  it  now,  for  her:  it  had  become 
the  gift  of  a  friend,  the  reminder  of  old  days.  A  love 
she  had  never  thought  to  know  had  blotted  out  that 
early  dawn  of  passion;  she  knew  it  now  for  what  it 
was. 

About  her  the  squirrels  frisked  and  chattered;  moss 
and  dead  leaves  carpeted  the  broad  trail ;  she  was  utterly 
alone.  The  tiny  village  was  perched  at  the  edge  of  the 
forest:  three  miles,  by  the  use  of  the  careful  cross-trails 
few  but  the  priest  knew,  would  take  her  to  her  goal.  Lost 
in  her  thoughts,  she  had  covered  them  before  she  could 
believe  it ;  reading  the  blazes  mechanically,  she  had  read 
her  way  to  the  cabin  where  the  squirrel  with  poor  Cousin 
Sue's  eyes  had  led  her  two  years  ago. 

Nothing  was  changed.  Except  that  there  was  no  smoke 
from  the  chimney,  no  odor  of  cooking  food,  the  building 
and  its  unused  offices  might  have  faced  the  hot-hearted 
girl  who  stumbled  against  the  door  to  try  the  issue  of 
her  life.  Well,  she  had  played — and  lost.  What  she 
had  been  sure  of,  she  had  failed  in :  what  she  had  never 
dreamed  of,  she  had  found. 

She  fitted  the  key  in  the  door,  hesitated  a  minute,  then 
turned  it  and  entered,  ready  for  any  emotion. 

But  life  does  not  always  lend  itself  to  us  gracefully 
in  these  moments:  the  room  was  but  an  empty  cabin. 

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She  surveyed  it  critically,  smiled  a  little,  and  walked 
from  stove  to  table,  store-boxes  to  rifle-rack.  There 
was  no  one  in  this  room  for  her.  The  man  she  thought 
of  was  not  even  brought  to  her  mind  by  the  sight  of  the 
poor  old  wheeled  chair,  faithfully  ready  in  the  corner. 
From  the  moment  she  had  seen  him  striding  down  the 
ballroom,  that  gauzy-gold  woman  in  his  arms,  her  cheek 
against  his  face,  Evelyn  had  ceased  to  connect  him  with 
any  such  vehicle.  He  had  walked  like  a  king,  carrying 
in  his  arms  the  woman  he  loved,  and  it  was  so  she 
thought  of  him,  and  trembled  at  the  thought. 

Sometimes  she  saw  him  as  he  had  stood  last  before 
her,  so  red,  so  humble. 

"I  understand — I  will  never  annoy  you.  .  .  ."  She  bit 
her  lips,  looked  for  the  broom  and  began  to  sweep  the 
cabin,  opening  the  windows  to  let  in  the  sweet  warm 
air,  for  the  season  was  early. 

Her  task  accomplished,  she  drew  out  one  of  the  rude 
chairs  and  sat  down.  Here  they  had  stood,  he  and  she 
.  .  .  but  no,  she  had  no  thrill  from  it.  There  had  been 
a  man,  a  rough-haired,  timid  giant  in  a  coarse,  gray 
shirt,  and  there  was  another  man,  strong  and  graceful, 
too  proud  to  lie  to  her,  knowing  that  she  knew  what 
he  had  felt  for  that  gauzy  woman  with  seed  pearls  woven 
through  her  red  braids.  .  .  . 

"I  understand.    I  will  never  annoy  you!" 

All  at  once  thick  sobs  filled  her  throat,  she  went  slowly 
to  the  cot,  covered  with  the  clean  gray  blanket,  threw 
herself  on  it,  face  downward,  and  wept  her  heart  out 
under  the  oaken  crucifix. 

At  the  sound  of  a  quick  step  near  the  door  she  started 
up ;  a  pang  of  unpleasant  fear  cramped  her  breath — were 
the  guns  loaded?  Who  would  be  coming  through  the 

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OPEN    MARKET 

woods?  She  leaped  behind  the  heavy  door  to  shut  it, 
but  a  strong  arm  forced  it  back  and  as  she  cried  out 
nervously,  a  man  bent  his  head  to  the  door,  and  she 
stood  staring  at  her  husband,  one  hand  at  her  heart. 

"Eve-Marie!"  he  stammered.  "Eve-Marie!"  and  as 
she  stared  still,  "O  Eve-Marie !"  he  said  again. 

She  filled  her  eyes  with  him,  he  towered,  enormous, 
in  the  shallow  room;  he  was  more  powerful  than  she 
had  remembered,  even. 

"I — you — had  you  a  good  voyage  ?"  she  said,  foolishly, 
feebly.  In  that  moment  she  knew  how  she  had  missed 
him  and  that  she  had  been  waiting  for  him  since  he 
left  her. 

"Why  did  you  come  here,  Eve-Marie?"  he  said,  never 
taking  his  eyes  from  her,  feeding  on  her  tear-stained, 
scarlet  face. 

"I — I  came  to  sweep  the  .  .  .  did  you  see  Pere  An- 
toine?"  she  gasped.  She  felt  horribly  ashamed,  but  she 
could  no  more  have  taken  her  eyes  from  him  than  a 
parched  traveler  can  lift  his  face  from  the  spring. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  his  voice  pitched  low,  to  a  note  she 
had  never  heard,  "I  saw  him.  He  told  me  what  you  had 
done.  My  God,  Eve-Marie,  why  did  you  do  that — tell 
me!" 

"He — he  was  very  sick  ...  he  is  a  good  man,"  she 
said  confusedly. 

His  eyes  were  black  as  sea  water  at  night.  He  pointed 
to  the  floor  beside  the  tumbled  cot ;  the  little  book  of  de- 
votions lay  there. 

"You  brought  that  here,"  he  said,  as  breathless  as 
she,  now.  "You  lay  on  my  bed  and  cried — I  heard  it  as 
I  came.  Why  were  you  crying?" 

If  she  could  have  turned  her  eyes  from  his  she  would 

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have,  but  she  had  no  power.    Still  looking  up  at  him,  as 
a  child  to  its  master,  she  tried  to  speak  firmly. 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that,"  she  whispered.  It 
never  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  tell  him  a  lie. 

He  did  not  move  his  body  nor  take  his  eyes  off  hers, 
but,  stretching  out  his  arms,  he  drew  her  close  to  him. 

'Tell  me,"  he  said. 

She  shut  her  lips,  and  he  took  her  face  gently  in  one 
hand  and  turned  it  up  to  his  eyes. 

"Tell  me,  darling  Eve-Marie,"  he  said  again. 

She  would  not  speak,  but  her  chin  nestled  in  his  hand. 

They  stood  there,  then,  in  utter  silence.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  this  delicious  nearness  was  the  answer  to 
all  question,  the  end  of  all  labor.  To  rest  here  with  her 
happy  thoughts  forever  was  all  she  asked  of  God. 

Then,  as  they  looked,  their  faces  moved  closer,  as  he 
leaned  to  her  she  lifted  herself  up  and  met  his  lips  and 
thought  no  more  of  God  nor  of  anything. 

And  then,  because  the  woman  does  not  live  who  will  not 
probe  her  joy,  she  leaned  back  and  drew  his  happiness 
away. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "when  did  you  begin  to  love  me  ?" 

"When  ?"  he  answered.  "What  do  you  mean  ?  I  have 
always  loved  you,  Eve-Marie,  since  the  moment  I  saw 
you." 

"But  ...  not  like  this.  .  .  ." 

"No,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "not  like  this.  To  begin 
with,  I  did  not  dare." 

"Did  you  love  me  the  night  you  first  walked?"  she 
demanded,  piercing  him  with  her  eyes. 

"The  night  I  ...  Oh,  yes." 

He  seemed  to  consider  and  his  brows  knit.  Suddenly 
he  smiled. 

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"Oh,"  he  said,  "that  was  the  night  I  found  out  how 
I  loved  you!" 

She  gasped  and  hid  in  his  arms,  wondering  at  man, 
forgetting  that  she  herself  had  found  love  not  at  his 
touch,  but  through  another's! 

Once  he  thought  of  something,  stood  away  from  her, 
and  searched  her  eyes. 

"You  are  sure  you  remember,"  he  said,  "that  I — that 
my  father  adopted  me,  before  the  law — Pere  Antoine 
knows — so  that  I  might  have  a — a  name?" 

"I  don't  remember  that  I  ever  knew  it,"  she  said. 
"Does  it  matter?  It  is  my  name,  too,  you  know!" 

He  bent  his  head  into  her  hands. 

"Once  .  .  .  when  I  first  was  sure,"  he  began,  muffled 
in  her  lap,  "I  wanted  to  give  back  the  money,  and  come 
back  here  and  be  a  guide — as  he  was." 

"Would  it  make  you  happy,  dear?"  she  asked  him, 
her  hands  like  soft  wings  brushing  his  cheeks.  "Because 
I  will  come  with  you,  then,  and  live  here." 

He  raised  his  head :  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  would  live  here — you?"  he 
said.  "Do  you  mean  that,  Eve-Marie?" 

"Why  not?"  she  answered.    "I  love  you." 

"Then  .  .  .  then,  will  you — would  you  stay  here,  now, 
you  and  I — just  for  a  little,  now?  I  could  take  care  of 
you.  .  .  ." 

"Why  not?"  she  said  again.    "I  love  you." 


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